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liWD-JO^ 


MACMILLAN'S      STANDARD      LIBRARY 


THE    PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 


THE    PEOPLE    OF 
THE    ABYSS 


BY 


JACK    LONDON 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE    CALL    OF   THE    WILD,"    "CHILDREN 
OF   THE   FROST,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


WITH  MANY  ILLUSTRATIONS 
FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW   YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1903, 
BY  THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY. 


Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  October,  1903.     Reprinted 
February,  1904;  June,  1904;  June,  1906;  January,  May,  1907. 


NortoooU 

J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Annex 


THE  chief  priests  and  rulers  cry : 


u  O  Lord  and  Master,  not  ours  the  guilt, 
We  build  but  as  our  fathers  built ; 
Behold  thine  images  how  they  stand 
Sovereign  and  sole  through  all  our  land. 

"  Our  task  is  hard  —  with  sword  and  flame, 
To  hold  thine  earth  forever  the  same. 
And  with  sharp  crooks  of  steel  to  keep, 
Still  as  thou  leftest  them,  thy  sheep." 

Then  Christ  sought  out  an  artisan, 
A  low-browed,  stunted,  haggard  man. 
And  a  motherless  girl  whose  fingers  thin 
Crushed  from  her  faintly  want  and  sin. 

These  set  he  in  the  midst  of  them. 
And  as  they  drew  back  their  garment  hem 
For  fear  of  defilement,  '•  Lo,  here,"  said  he, 
"The  images  ye  have  made  of  me." 

—  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


PREFACE 

THE  experiences  related  in  this  volume  fell  to  me 
in  the  summer  of  1902.  I  went  down  into  the 
under-world  of  London  with  an  attitude  of  mind 
which  I  may  best  liken  to  that  of  the  explorer.  I 
was  open  to  be  convinced  by  the  evidence  of  my 
eyes,  rather  than  by  the  teachings  of  those  who  had 
not  seen,  or  by  the  words  of  those  who  had  seen 
and  gone  before.  Further,  I  took  with  me  certain 
simple  criteria  with  which  to  measure  the  life  of  the 
under-world.  That  which  made  for  more  life,  for 
physical  and  spiritual  health,  was  good ;  that  which 
made  for  less  life,  which  hurt,  and  dwarfed,  and  dis 
torted  life,  was  bad. 

It  will  be  readily  apparent  to  the  reader  that  I 
saw  much  that  was  bad.  Yet  it  must  not  be  for 
gotten  that  the  time  of  which  I  write  was  con 
sidered  "  good  times  "  in  England.  The  starvation 

O  O 

and  lack  of  shelter  I  encountered  constituted  a 
chronic  condition  of  misery  which  is  never  wiped 
out,  even  in  the  periods  of  greatest  prosperity. 

Following  the  summer  in  question  came  a  hard 
winter.  To  such  an  extent  did  the  suffering  and 
positive  starvation  increase  that  society  was  unable 
to  cope  with  it.  Great  numbers  of  the  unem 
ployed  formed  into  processions,  as  many  as  a  dozen 


viii  PREFACE 

at  a  time,  and  daily  marched  through  the  streets  of 
London  crying  for  bread.  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy, 
writing  in  the  month  of  January,  1903,  to  the  New 
York  Independent,  briefly  epitomizes  the  situation 
as  follows :  — 

"  The  workhouses  have  no  space  left  in  which  to 
pack  the  starving  crowds  who  are  craving  every 
day  and  night  at  their  doors  for  food  and  shelter. 
All  the  charitable  institutions  have  exhausted  their 
means  in  trying  to  raise  supplies  of  food  for  the 
famishing  residents  of  the  garrets  and  cellars  of 
London  lanes  and  alleys.  The  quarters  of  the 
Salvation  Army  in  various  parts  of  London  are 
nightly  besieged  by  hosts  of  the  unemployed  and 
the  hungry  for  whom  neither  shelter  nor  the  means 
of  sustenance  can  be  provided." 

It  has  been  urged  that  the  criticism  I  have  passed 
on  things  as  they  are  in  England  is  too  pessimistic. 
I  must  say,  in  extenuation,  that  of  optimists  I  am 
the  most  optimistic.  But  I  measure  manhood  less 
by  political  aggregations  than  by  individuals.  So 
ciety  grows,  while  political  machines  rack  to  pieces 
and  become  "scrap."  For  the  English,  so  far  as 
manhood  and  womanhood  and  health  and  happi 
ness  go,  I  see  a  broad  and  smiling  future.  But  for 
a  great  deal  of  the  political  machinery,  which  at 
present  mismanages  for  them,  I  see  nothing  else 
than  the  scrap  heap. 

JACK    LONDON. 

PIEDMONT,  CALIFORNIA. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  DESCENT i 

II.  JOHNNY  UPRIGHT 16 

III.  MY  LODGING  AND  SOME  OTHERS     ....  23 

IV.  A  MAN  AND  THE  ABYSS 30 

» 

V.  THOSE  ON  THE  EDGE 43 

VI.  FRYING-PAN  ALLEY  AND  A  GLIMPSE  OF  INFERNO   .  54 

VII.  A  WINNER  OF  THE  VICTORIA  CROSS        ...  65 

VIII.  THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER          ...  74 

IX.  THE  SPIKE         .                  91 

X.  CARRYING  THE  BANNER 113 

XI.  THE  PEG 121 

XII.  CORONATION  DAY 138 

XIII.  DAN  CULLEN,  DOCKER 158 

XIV.  HOPS  AND  HOPPERS 167 

XV.  THE  SEA  WIFE 180 

XVI.  PROPERTY  -versus  PERSON 186 

XVII.  INEFFICIENCY 192 

XVIII.  WAGES 202 

XIX.  THE  GHETTO 210 

XX.  COFFEE-HOUSES  AND  DOSS-HOUSES    ....  232 

XXI.  THE  PRECARIOUSNESS  OF  LIFE         ....  250 

XXII.  SUICIDE 263 


X  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  THE  CHILDREN 274 

XXIV.  A  VISION  OF  THE  NIGHT 283 

XXV.  THE  HUNGER  WAIL 289 

XXVI.  DRINK,  TEMPERANCE,  AND  THRIFT  ....  300 

XXVII.  THE  MANAGEMENT 311 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


u  Each  bench  was  jammed  with  sleeping  occupants  "     .        Frontispiece 


PACE 


Dorset  Street,  Spitalfields     ........         2 

"•  Nowhere  may  one  escape  the  sight  of  abject  poverty  "  .  .  6 
'•  Tottery  old  men  and  women  were  searching  in  the  garbage 

thrown  in  the  mud  "........         7 

A  Shop  wtiere  Old  Clothes  are  sold  ......  9 

A  View  of  Petticoat  Lane Facing  10 

Petticoat  Lane 1 1 

An  East-end  "  Slavey " 17 

A  House  to  Let   ..........       24 

A  House  to  Let  ..........  27 

A  Descendant  of  the  Sea  Kings -34 

Where  the  Children  grow  up         .......       38 

'•  Here  and  there  I  found  little  spots  where  a  fair  measure  of 

happiness  reigned  "........       44 

"  In  the  evening  the  men  can  be  seen  at  the  doors,  pipes  in  their 

mouths  and  children  at  their  knees  "      .         .         .         .         -45 

Drunken  Women  fighting    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  51 

'•  Conflict  again  precipitated  "       .......       52 

Frying-pan  Alley  .         .         .         .          .         .          .          .          -56 

4'In  the  shadow  of  Christ's  Church  I  saw  a  sight  I  never  wish  to 

see  again"    .........          60,  61 

"A  chill,  raw  wind  was  blowing,  and  these  creatures  huddled 

there  sleeping  or  trying  to  sleep "  .  .  .  .  Facing  62 

"A  lung  of  London1' 63 

The  Line  waiting  before  Whitechapel  Workhouse  ...  66 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Poplar  Workhouse       .  72 

Casual  Ward  of  Whitechapel  Workhouse 75 

Mile  End  Road Facing      77 

Before  WThitechapel  Workhouse  .....        Facing      91 
A  Typical  London  Hopper  and  his  Mate  "Padding  the  Hoof'1  in 

Kent .98 

Whitechapel  Infirmary          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .108 

Along  Leicester  Square  at  Night  .         .         .         .         .         .114 

"  Only  were  to  be  seen  the  policemen,  flashing  their  dark  lanterns 

into  doorways  and  alleys "  .....  facing  115 
"  I  saw  one  old  woman,  a  sheer  wreck,  sleeping  soundly  "  .  .  115 

"  Under  the  Arches  " .        Facing     1 1 7 

Green  Park  ........        Facing     \  \  8 

"  The  well-dressed  West  Enclers,  with  their  wives  and  progeny, 

were  out  -taking  the  air  "  .....  Facing  120 
Salvation  Army  Barracks  near  the  Surrey  Theatre  .  Facing  122 
Inside  the  Courtyard  of  the  Salvation  Army  Barracks  on  Sunday 

Morning        .......... 

"  For  an  hour  we  stood  quietly  in  this  packed  courtyard  " 

Coronation  Procession  passing  up  St.  James  Street 

The  Coronation  Procession  ....... 

"  Ragged  men  are  tossing  up  their  hats  and  crying,  l  God  save 

the  King1"  .          .         .          .         .         .         .         .        Facing 

The  Evening  of  Coronation  Day  .          ...... 

On  the  Embankment  at  Three  in  the  Morning      .... 

The  Municipal  Dwellings  not  far  from  Leman  Street    .        Facing    158 

London  Hospital,  Mile  End  Road -163 

One  of  the  Wards  in  Whitechapel  Infirmary         ....     164 

The  Temperance  Hospital    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .165 

Bert  and  the  Author  ready  to  pick  Hops       .         .         .         .         .172 

Village  Hop  Pickers  as  distinguished  from  London  "Hoppers"    .     175 

In  the  Hop  Fields        .         .         „ 177 

Mile  End  Road    .         .         .         *         ,         „         .         .         .         .193 


ILLUSTRATIONS  xiii 

PAGE 

Picking  Oakum  in  the  Casual  Ward 195 

An  East  End  Interior  .          .         .         .         .         .         .         .          .212 

Devonshire  Place,  Lisson  Grove Facing    215 

"  A  part  of  a  room  to  let "    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .217 

A  Two-relay  System  Lodging       .  Facing    219 

A  Group  of  Jewish  Children         .......     220 

The  Ghetto  Market,  Whitechapel 222,  223 

View  in  Spitaliields      .......       Facing    224 

View  in  Bethnal  Green         ........     225 

View  in  Stratford          .........     226 

The  Ghetto  Market,  Whitechapel 228,  229 

View  in  Hoxton  ..........     230 

View  in  Wapping         .......        Facing    232 

The  East  India  Docks  ........     233 

Turning^over  the  Scraps  and  Shreds  of  Beef  and  Mutton      .         .     236 

A  Coster's  Barrow 237 

Coffee-house  near  Jubilee  Street  .......     239 

A  Small  Doss-house     .......       Facing    241 

A  Workman's  Home    .........     243 

The  Working-men's  Homes,  near  Middlesex  Street      .         .         .     244 
One  of  the  Monster  Doss-houses  ....       Facing    245 

Working-men's  Homes,  for  Men  only  .......     246 

Inside  the  Thames  Police  Court  .......     264 

When  the  Organ-grinder  goes  his  Round     .         .         .        Facing    274 
Commercial  Street        ......         ...     283 

Down  Leman  Street  to  the  Docks         ......     284 

The  East  India  Docks 288 

A  Woman's  Club  at  the  Public  House  Door          .         .         .         .301 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE 
ABYSS 

CHAPTER   I 

THE    DESCENT 

Christ  look  upon  us  in  this  city, 
And  keep  our  sympathy  and  pity 
<>  Fresh,  and  our  faces  heavenward ; 

Lest  we  grow  hard. 

-THOMAS  ASHE. 

"  BUT  you  can't  do  it,  you  know,"  friends  said, 
to  whom  I  applied  for  assistance  in  the  matter  of 
sinking  myself  down  into  the  East  End  of  London. 
"  You  had  better  see  the  police  for  a  guide,"  they 
added,  on  second  thought,  painfully  endeavoring  to 
adjust  themselves  to  the  psychological  processes  of 
a  madman  who  had  come  to  them  with  better  cre 
dentials  than  brains. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  see  the  police,"  I  protested. 
"  What  I  wish  to  do,  is  to  go  down  into  the  East 
End  and  see  things  for  myself.  I  wish  to  know 
how  those  people  are  living  there,  and  why  they 
are  living  there,  and  what  they  are  living  for.  In 
short,  I  am  going  to  live  there  myself." 


2  THE  PEOPLE  OF   THE   ABYSS 

"  You  don't  want  to  live  down  there !  "  every 
body  said,  with  disapprobation  writ  large  upon  their 
faces.  "  Why,  it  is  said  there  are  places  where  a 
man's  life  isn't  worth  tu'pence." 

"  The  very  places  I  wish  to  see,"  I  broke  in. 


DORSET  STREET,  SPITALFIELDS. 
The  worst  street  in  London. 

"  But  you  can't,  you  know,"  was  the  unfailing 
rejoinder, 

"  Which  is  not  what  I  came  to  see  you  about,"  I 
answered  brusquely,  somewhat  nettled  by  their 
incomprehension.  "  I  am  a  stranger  here,  and  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  know  of  the  East 
End,  in  order  that  I  may  have  something  to  start 
on." 

"  But   we   know  nothing  of   the   East   End.     It 


THE   DESCENT  3 

is  over  there,  somewhere."  And  they  waved  their 
hands  vaguely  in  the  direction  where  the  sun  on 
rare  occasions  may  be  seen  to  rise. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  to  Cook's,"  I  announced. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  they  said,  with  relief.  "  Cook's  will  be 
sure  to  know." 

But  O  Cook,  O  Thomas  Cook  &  Son,  pathfind 
ers  and  trail-clearers,  living  sign-posts  to  all  the 
world  and  bestowers  of  first  aid  to  bewildered  trav 
ellers —  unhesitatingly  and  instantly,  with  ease  and 
celerity,  could  you  send  me  to  Darkest  Africa  or 
Innermost  Thibet,  but  to  the  East  End  of  London, 
barely  a  stone's  throw  distant  from  Ludgate  Circus, 
you  know  not  the  way ! 

"  You  can't  do  it,  you  know,"  said  the  human 
emporium  of  routes  and  fares  at  Cook's  Cheapside 
branch.  "  It  is  so  —  ahem  —  so  unusual." 

"  Consult  the  police,"  he  concluded  authorita 
tively,  when  I  persisted.  "  We  are  not  accus 
tomed  to  taking  travellers  to  the  East  End ;  we 
receive  no  call  to  take  them  there,  and  we  know 
nothing  whatsoever  about  the  place  at  all." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  I  interposed,  to  save  myself 
from  being  swept  out  of  the  office  by  his  flood  of 
negations.  "  Here's  something  you  can  do  for  me. 
I  wish  you  to  understand  in  advance  what  I  intend 
doing,  so  that  in  case  of  trouble  you  may  be  able  to 
identify  me." 


4  THE   PEOPLE  OF   THE   ABYSS 

"  Ah,  I  see ;  should  you  be  murdered,  we  would 
be  in  position  to  identify  the  corpse." 

He  said  it  so  cheerfully  and  cold-bloodedly  that 
on  the  instant  I  saw  my  stark  and  mutilated 
cadaver  stretched  upon  a  slab  where  cool  waters 
trickle  ceaselessly,  and  him  I  saw  bending  over  and 
sadly  and  patiently  identifying  it  as  the  body  of  the 
insane  American  who  would  see  the  East  End. 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered ;  "  merely  to  identify  me  in 
case  I  get  into  a  scrape  with  the  '  bobbies.' '  This 
last  I  said  with  a  thrill;  truly,  I  was  gripping  hold 
of  the  vernacular. 

"  That,"  he  said,  "  is  a  matter  for  the  considera 
tion  of  the  Chief  Office." 

"  It  is  so  unprecedented,  you  know,"  he  added 
apologetically. 

The  man  at  the  Chief  Office  hemmed  and  hawed. 
"  We  make  it  a  rule,"  he  explained,  "  to  give  no 
information  concerning  our  clients." 

"  But  in  this  case,"  I  urged,  "  it  is  the  client  who 
requests  you  to  give  the  information  concerning 
himself." 

Again  he  hemmed  and  hawed. 

"  Of  course,"  I  hastily  anticipated,  "  I  know  it  is 
unprecedented,  but  — 

"  As  I  was  about  to  remark,"  he  went  on  steadily, 
"  it  is  unprecedented,  and  I  don't  think  we  can  do 
anything  for  you." 


THE   DESCENT  5 

However,  I  departed  with  the  address  of  a  detec 
tive  who  lived  in  the  East  End,  and  took  my  way  to 
the  American  consul-general.  And  here,  at  last,  I 
found  a  man  with  whom  I  could  'do  business.' 
There  was  no  hemming  and  hawing,  no  lifted 
brows,  open  incredulity,  or  blank  amazement.  In 
one  minute  I  explained  myself  and  my  project, 
which  he  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  the 
second  minute  he  asked  my  age,  height,  and  weight, 
and  looked  me  over.  And  in  the  third  minute,  as 
we  shook  hands  at  parting,  he  said :  "  All  right, 
Jack.  I'll  remember  you  and  keep  track." 

I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  Having  built  my 
ships  behind  me,  I  was  now  free  to  plunge  into  that 
human  wilderness  of  which  nobody  seemed  to  know 
anything.  But  at  once  I  encountered  a  new  diffi 
culty  in  the  shape  of  my  cabby,  a  gray-whiskered 
and  eminently  decorous  personage,  wrho  had  imper- 
turbably  driven  me  for  several  hours  about  the  '  City.' 

"  Drive  me  down  to  the  East  End,"  I  ordered, 
taking  my  seat. 

"  Where,  sir  ? "  he  demanded  with  frank  surprise. 

"  To  the  East  End,  anywhere.     Go  on." 

The  hansom  pursued  an  aimless  way  for  several 
minutes,  then  came  to  a  puzzled  stop.  The  aper 
ture  above  my  head  was  uncovered,  and  the  cabman 
peered  down  perplexedly  at  me. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  wot  plyce  yer  wanter  go  ?  " 


6  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

"  East  End,"  I  repeated.  "  Nowhere  in  particular. 
Just  drive  me  around,  anywhere." 

"  But  wot's  the  haddress,  sir?  " 

"  See  here  !  "  I  thundered.  "  Drive  me  down  to 
the  East  End,  and  at  once ! " 


"  X()\VHKKK    MAY    (INK    ESCAl'K    THK   SIGHT    OF   AHJF.CT    POVERTY." 

It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  understand,  but 
he  withdrew  his  head  and  grumblingly  started  his 
horse. 

Nowhere  in  the  streets  of  London  may  one 
escape  the  sight  of  abject  poverty,  while  five  min 
utes'  walk  from  almost  any  point  will  bring  one  to  a 
slum ;  but  the  region  my  hansom  was  now  penetrat- 


THE   DESCENT  7 

ing  was  one  unending  slum.  The  streets  were 
filled  with  a  new  and  different  race  of  people,  short 
of  stature,  and  of  wretched  or  beer-sodden  appear 
ance.  We  rolled  along  through  miles  of  bricks  and 
squalor,  and  from  each  cross  street  and  alley  flashed 


"  TOTTERY  OLD  MEN  AND  WOMEN  WERE  SEARCHING  IN  THE  GARBAGE 
THROWN  IN  THE  MUD." 

long  vistas  of  bricks  and  misery.  Here  and  there 
lurched  a  drunken  man  or  woman,  and  the  air  was 
obscene  with  sounds  of  jangling  and  squabbling. 
At  a  market,  tottery  old  men  and  women  were 
searching  in  the  garbage  thrown  in  the  mud  for 


8  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

rotten  potatoes,  beans,  and  vegetables,  while  little 
children  clustered  like  flies  around  a  festering  mass 
of  fruit,  thrusting  their  arms  to  the  shoulders  into 
the  liquid  corruption,  and  drawing  forth  morsels,  but 
partially  decayed,  which  they  devoured  on  the  spot. 

Not  a  hansom  did  I  meet  with  in  all  my  drive, 
while  mine  was  like  an  apparition  from  another  and 
better  world,  the  way  the  children  ran  after  it  and 
alongside.  And  as  far  as  I  could  see  were  the 
solid  walls  of  brick,  the  slimy  pavements,  and  the 
screaming  streets ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
the  fear  of  the  crowd  smote  me.  It  was  like  the 
fear  of  the  sea;  and  the  miserable  multitudes,  street 
upon  street,  seemed  so  many  waves  of  a  vast  and 
malodorous  sea,  lapping  about  me  and  threatening 
to  well  up  and  over  me. 

"  Stepney,  sir ;  Stepney  Station,"  the  cabby  called 
down. 

I  looked  about.  It  was  really  a  railroad  station, 
and  he  had  driven  desperately  to  it  as  the  one 
familiar  spot  he  had  ever  heard  of  in  all  that 
wilderness. 

"  Well  ?  "  I  said. 

He  spluttered  unintelligibly,  shook  his  head,  and 
looked  very  miserable.  "  I'm  a  strynger  'ere,"  he 
managed  to  articulate.  "  An'  if  yer  don't  want 
Stepney  Station,  I'm  blessed  if  I  know  wotcher  do 
want." 


THE    DESCENT  9 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want,"  I  said.  "  You  drive 
along  and  keep  your  eye  out  for  a  shop  where  old 
clothes  are  sold.  Now,  when  you  see  such  a  shop, 
drive  right  on  till  you  turn  the  corner,  then  stop 
and  let  me  out." 


A  SHOP  WHERE  OLD  CLOTHE 


I  could  see  that  he  was  growing  dubious  of  his 
fare,  but  not  long  afterward  he  pulled  up  to  the 
curb  and  informed  me  that  an  old  clothes  shop 
was  to  be  found  a  bit  of  the  way  back. 

"  Won'tcher  py  me  ?  "  he  pleaded.  "  There's 
seven  an'  six  owin'  me." 

"Yes,"  I  laughed,  "and  it  would  be  the  last  I'd 
see  of  you." 


10  THE   PEOPLE  OF  THE   ABYSS 

"  Lord  lumme,  but  it'll  be  the  last  I  see  of  you 
if  yer  don't  py  me,"  he  retorted. 

But  a  crowd  of  ragged  onlookers  had  already 
gathered  around  the  cab,  and  I  laughed  again  and 
walked  back  to  the  old  clothes  shop. 

Here  the  chief  difficulty  was  in  making  the  shop 
man  understand  that  I  really  and  truly  wanted  old 
clothes.  But  after  fruitless  attempts  to  press  upon 
me  new  and  impossible  coats  and  trousers,  he 
began  to  bring  to  light  heaps  of  old  ones,  looking 
mysterious  the  while  and  hinting  darkly.  This  he 
did  with  the  palpable  intention  of  letting  me  know 
that  he  had  '  piped  my  lay,'  in  order  to  bulldose 
me,  through  fear  of  exposure,  into  paying  heavily 
for  my  purchases.  A  man  in  trouble,  or  a  high- 
class  criminal  from  across  the  water,  was  what 
he  took  my  measure  for  —  in  either  case,  a  person 
anxious  to  avoid  the  police. 

But  I  disputed  with  him  over  the  outrageous 
difference  between  prices  and  values,  till  I  quite 
disabused  him  of  the  notion,  and  he  settled  down  to 
drive  a  hard  bargain  with  a  hard  customer.  In  the 
end  I  selected  a  pair  of  stout  though  well-worn 
trousers,  a  frayed  jacket  with  one  remaining  button, 
a  pair  of  brogans  which  had  plainly  seen  service 
where  coal  was  shovelled,  a  thin  leather  belt,  and  a 
very  dirty  cloth  cap.  My  underclothing  and  socks, 
however,  were  new  and  warm,  but  of  the  sort  that 


THE   DESCENT  II 

any  American  waif,  down  in  his  luck,  could  acquire 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  events. 

"  I  must  sy  yer  a  sharp 'un,"  he  said,  with  counter 
feit  admiration,  as  I  handed  over  the  ten  shillings 
finally  agreed  upon  for  the  outfit.  "  Blimey,  if  you 
ain't  ben  up  an'  down  Petticut  Lane  afore  now. 


PETTICOAT  LANE. 


Yer  trouseys  is  wuth  five  bob  to  hany  man,  an'  a 
docker  'ud  give  two  an'  six  for  the  shoes,  to  sy 
nothin'  of  the  coat  an'  cap  an'  new  stoker's  singlet 
an'  hother  things." 

"  How  much  will  you  give  me  for  them  ?  "  I  de 
manded  suddenly.       "  I  paid  you  ten  bob    for  the 


12  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

lot,  and  I'll  sell  them  back  to  you,  right  now,  for 
eight.  Come,  it's  a  go  ! " 

But  he  grinned  and  shook  his  head,  and  though 
I  had  made  a  good  bargain,  I  was  unpleasantly 
aware  that  he  had  made  a  better  one. 

I  found  the  cabby  and  a  policeman  with  their 
heads  together,  but  the  latter,  after  looking  me 
over  sharply  and  particularly  scrutinizing  the  bundle 
under  my  arm,  turned  away  and  left  the  cabby  to 
wax  mutinous  by  himself.  And  not  a  step  would 
he  budge  till  I  paid  him  the  seven  shillings  and 
sixpence  owing  him.  Whereupon  he  was  willing 
to  drive  me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  apologizing 
profusely  for  his  insistence,  and  explaining  that 
one  ran  across  queer  customers  in  London  Town. 

But  he  drove  me  only  to  Highbury  Vale,  in 
North  London,  where  my  luggage  was  waiting  for 
me.  Here,  next  day,  I  took  off  my  shoes  (not 
without  regret  for  their  lightness  and  comfort),  and 
my  soft,  gray  travelling  suit,  and,  in  fact,  all  my 
clothing ;  and  proceeded  to  array  myself  in  the 
clothes  of  the  other  and  unimaginable  men,  who 
must  have  been  indeed  unfortunate  to  have  had  to 
part  with  such  rags  for  the  pitiable  sums  obtainable 
from  a  dealer. 

Inside  my  stoker's  singlet,  in  the  armpit,  I  sewed 
a  gold  sovereign  (an  emergency  sum  certainly  of 
modest  proportions);  and  inside  my  stoker's  singlet 


THE   DESCENT  13 

I  put  myself.  And  then  I  sat  down  and  moralized 
upon  the  fair  years  and  fat,  which  had  made  my 
skin  soft  and  brought  the  nerves  close  to  the  sur 
face  ;  for  the  singlet  was  rough  and  raspy  as  a  hair 
shirt,  and  I  am  confident  that  the  most  rigorous  of 
ascetics  suffer  no  more  than  did  I  in  the  ensuing 
twenty-four  hours. 

The  remainder  of  my  costume  was  fairly  easy  to 
put  on,  though  the  brogans,  or  brogues,  were  quite 
a  problem.  As  stiff  and  hard  as  if  made  of  wood, 
it  was  only  after  a  prolonged  pounding  of  the  up 
pers  with  my  fists  that  I  was  able  to  get  my  feet 
into  them  at  all.  Then,  with  a  few  shillings,  a 
knife,  a  handkerchief,  and  some  brown  papers  and 
flake  tobacco  stowed  away  in  my  pockets,  I  thumped 
down  the  stairs  and  said  good-by  to  my  foreboding 
friends.  As  I  passed  out  the  door,  the  '  help,'  a 
comely,  middle-aged  wroman,  could  not  conquer  a 
grin  that  twisted  her  lips  and  separated  them  till  the 
throat,  out  of  involuntary  sympathy,  made  the  uncouth 
animal  noises  we  are  wont  to  designate  as  'laughter.' 

No  sooner  was  I  out  on  the  streets  than  I  was 
impressed  by  the  difference  in  status  effected  by 
my  clothes.  All  servility  vanished  from  the  de 
meanor  of  the  common  people  with  whom  I  came 
in  contact.  Presto !  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  so 
to  say,  I  had  become  one  of  them.  My  frayed  and 
QLit-at-elbows  jacket  was  the  badge  and  advertise- 


14          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

ment  of  my  class,  which  was  their  class.  It  made 
me  of  like  kind,  and  in  place  of  the  fawning  and 
too-respectful  attention  I  had  hitherto  received,  I 
now  shared  with  them  a  comradeship.  The  man  in 
corduroy  and  dirty  neckerchief  no  longer  addressed 
me  as  'sir'  or  'governor.'  It  was  'mate,'  now  — 
and  a  fine  and  hearty  word,  with  a  tingle  to  it,  and 
a  warmth  and  gladness,  which  the  other  term  does 
not  possess.  Governor!  It  smacks  of  mastery, 
and  power,  and  high  authority  —  the  tribute  of  the 
man  who  is  under  to  the  man  on  top,  delivered  in 
the  hope  that  he  will  let  up  a  bit  and  ease  his 
weight.  Which  is  another  way  of  saying  that  it  is 
an  appeal  for  alms. 

This  brings  me  to  a  delight  I  experienced  in  my 
rags  and  tatters  which  is  denied  the  average  Ameri 
can  abroad.  The  European  traveller  from  the 
States,  wTho  is  not  a  Croesus,  speedily  finds  himself 
reduced  to  a  chronic  state  of  self-conscious  sordid- 
ness  by  the  hordes  of  cringing  robbers  who  clutter 
his  steps  from  dawn  till  dark,  and  deplete  his 
pocketbook  in  a  way  that  puts  compound  interest 
to  the  blush. 

In  my  rags  and  tatters  I  escaped  the  pestilence 
of  tipping,  and  encountered  men  on  a  basis  of 
equality.  Nay,  before  the  day  was  out  I  turned  the 
tables,  and  said,  most  gratefully,  "  Thank  you,  sir," 
to  a  gentleman  whose  horse  I  held,  and  who 
dropped  a  penny  into  my  eager  palm. 


THE   DESCENT  15 

Other  changes  I  discovered  were  wrought  in  my 
condition  by  my  new  garb.  In  crossing  crowded 
thoroughfares  I  found  I  had  to  be,  if  anything, 
more  lively  in  avoiding  vehicles,  and  it  was  strik 
ingly  impressed  upon  me  that  my  life  had  cheap 
ened  in  direct  ratio  with  my  clothes.  When  before, 
I  inquired  the  way  of  a  policeman,  I  was  usually 
asked,  "  Buss  or  'ansom,  sir  ?  "  But  now  the  query 
became,  "  Walk  or  ride  ? "  Also,  at  the  railway 
stations  it  was  the  rule  to  be  asked,  "  First  or 
second,  sir  ?  "  Now  I  was  asked  nothing,  a  third- 
class  ticket  being  shoved  out  to  me  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

But  there  was  compensation  for  it  all.  For  the 
first  time  I  met  the  English  lower  classes  face  to 
face,  and  knew  them  for  what  they  were.  When 
loungers  and  workmen,  on  street  corners  and  in 
public  houses,  talked  with  me,  they  talked  as  one 
man  to  another,  and  they  talked  as  natural  men 
should  talk,  without  the  least  idea  of  getting  any 
thing  out  of  me  for  what  they  talked  or  the  way 
they  talked. 

And  when  at  last  I  made  into  the  East  End,  I 
was  gratified  to  find  that  the  fear  of  the  crowd  no 
longer  haunted  me.  I  had  become  a  part  of  it. 
The  vast  and  malodorous  sea  had  welled  up  and 
over  me,  or  I  had  slipped  gently  into  it,  and  there 
was  nothing  fearsome  about  it  —  with  the  one 
exception  of  the  stoker's  singlet. 


CHAPTER    II 

JOHNNY    UPRIGHT 

The  people  live  in  squalid  dens,  where  there  can  be  no  health  and  no 
hope,  but  dogged  discontent  at  their  own  lot,  and  futile  discontent  at 
the  wealth  which  they  see  possessed  by  others. 

—  THOROLD  ROGERS. 

I  SHALL  not  give  you  the  address  of  Johnny 
Upright.  Let  it  suffice  that  he  lives  on  the  most 
respectable  street  in  the  East  End  —  a  street  that 
would  be  considered  very  mean  in  America,  but 
a  veritable  oasis  in  the  desert  of  East  London.  It 
is  surrounded  on  every  side  by  close-packed  squalor 
and  streets  jammed  by  a  young  and  vile  and  dirty 
generation ;  but  its  own  pavements  are  compara 
tively  bare  of  the  children  who  have  no  other  place 
to  play,  while  it  has  an  air  of  desertion,  so  few  are 
the  people  that  come  and  go. 

Each  house  on  this  street,  as  on  all  the  streets,  is 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  its  neighbors.  To  each 
house  there  is  but  one  entrance,  the  front  door, 
and  each  house  is  about  eighteen  feet  wide,  with 
a  bit  of  a  brick-walled  yard  behind,  where,  when 
it  is  not  raining,  one  may  look  at  a  slate-colored 
sky.  But  it  must  be  understood  that  this  is  East 

16 


JOHNNY   UPRIGHT  17 

End  opulence  we  are  now  considering.  Some  of 
the  people  on  this  street  are  even  so  well-to-do  as 
to  keep  a  '  slavey.'  Johnny  Upright  keeps  one, 
as  I  well  know,  she  being  my  first  acquaintance  in 
this  particular  portion  of  the  wrorld. 


AN  EAST-END  "  SLAVEY." 


To  Johnny  Upright's  house  I  came,  and  to  the 
door  came  the  '  slavey.'  Now,  mark  you,  her  posi 
tion  in  life  was  pitiable  and  contemptible,  but  it  was 
with  pity  and  contempt  that  she  looked  at  me. 
She  evinced  a  plain  desire  that  our  conversation 
should  be  short.  It  was  Sunday,  and  Johnny  Up- 


18  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

right  was  not  at  Home,  and  that  was  all  there  was 
to  it.  But  I  lingered,  discussing  whether  or  not 
it  was  all  there  was  to  it,  till  Mrs.  Johnny  Upright 
was  attracted  to  the  door,  where  she  scolded  the 
crirl  for  not  having  closed  it  before  turning  her 

o  o  o 

attention  to  me. 

No,  Mr.  Johnny  Upright  was  not  at  home,  and 
further,  he  saw  nobody  on  Sunday.  It  is  too  bad, 
said  I.  Was  I  looking  for  work?  No,  quite  to 
the  contrary;  in  fact,  I  had  come  to  see  Johnny 
Upright  on  business  which  might  be  profitable  to 
him. 

A  change  came  over  the  face  of  things  at  once. 

>D  O 

The  gentleman  in  question  was  at  church,  but  would 
be  home  in  an  hour  or  thereabouts,  when  no  doubt 
he  could  be  seen. 

Would  I  kindly  step  in  ?  —  no,  the  lady  did  not 
ask  me,  though  I  fished  for  an  invitation  by  stating 
that  I  would  2^0  down  to  the  corner  and  wait  in  a 

O 

public  house.  And  down  to  the  corner  I  went, 
but,  it  being  church  time,  the  '  pub '  was  closed. 
A  miserable  drizzle  was  falling,  and,  in  lieu  of 
better,  I  took  a  seat  on  a  neighborly  doorstep  and 
waited. 

And  here  to  the  doorstep  came  the  '  slavey,' 
very  frowzy  and  very  perplexed,  to  tell  me  that 
the  missus  would  let  me  come  back  and  wait  in 
the  kitchen. 


JOHNNY   UPRIGHT  19 

"  So  many  people  come  'ere  lookin'  for  work," 
Mrs.  Johnny  Upright  apologetically  explained.  "So 
I  'ope  you  won't  feel  bad  the  way  I  spoke." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  I  replied,  in  my  grandest 
manner,  for  the  nonce  investing  my  rags  with  dig 
nity.  "  I  quite  understand,  I  assure  you.  I  suppose 
people  looking  for  work  almost  worry  you  to  death  ?  " 

"  That  they  do,"  she  answered,  with  an  eloquent 
and  expressive  glance ;  and  thereupon  ushered  me 
into,  not  the  kitchen,  but  the  dining  room  —  a  favor, 
I  took  it,  in  recompense  for  my  grand  manner. 

This  dining  room,  on  the  same  floor  as  the 
kitchen,  was  about  four  feet  below  the  level  of  the 
ground,  and  so  dark  (it  was  midday)  that  I  had  to 
wait  a  space  for  my  eyes  to  adjust  themselves  to 
the  gloom.  Dirty  light  filtered  in  through  a  window, 
the  top  of  which  was  on  a  level  with  the  sidewalk, 
and  in  this  light  I  found  that  I  was  able  to  read 
newspaper  print. 

And  here,  while  waiting  the  coming  of  Johnny 
Upright,  let  me  explain  my  errand.  While  living, 
eating,  and  sleeping  with  the  people  of  the  East 
End,  it  was  my  intention  to  have  a  port  of  refuge, 
not  too  far  distant,  into  which  I  could  run  now 
and  again  to  assure  myself  that  good  clothes  and 
cleanliness  still  existed.  Also  in  such  port  I  could 
receive  my  mail,  work  up  my  notes,  and  sally  forth 
occasionally  in  changed  garb  to  civilization. 


20          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

But  this  involved  a  dilemma.  A  lodging  where 
my  property  would  be  safe  implied  a  landlady  apt 
to  be  suspicious  of  a  gentleman  leading  a  double 
life ;  while  a  landlady  who  would  not  bother  her 
head  over  the  double  life  of  her  lodgers  would 
imply  lodgings  where  property  was  unsafe.  To 
avoid  the  dilemma  was  what  had  brought  me  to 
Johnny  Upright.  A  detective  of  thirty-odd  years 
continuous  service  in  the  East  End,  known  far  and 
wide  by  a  name  given  him  by  a  convicted  felon  in 
the  dock,  he  was  just  the  man  to  find  me  an  honest 
landlady,  and  make  her  rest  easy  concerning  the 
strange  comings  and  ^oin^s  of  which  I  mi^ht  be 

o  o  o          o  o 

guilty. 

His  two  daughters  beat  him  home  from  church, 
—  and  pretty  girls  they  were  in  their  Sunday 
dresses,  withal  it  was  the  certain  weak  and  delicate 
prettiness  which  characterizes  the  Cockney  lasses, 
a  prettiness  which  is  no  more  than  a  promise 
with  no  grip  on  time,  and  doomed  to  fade  quickly 
away  like  the  color  from  a  sunset  sky. 

They  looked  me  over  with  frank  curiosity,  as 
though  I  were  some  sort  of  a  strange  animal,  and 
then  ignored  me  utterly  for  the  rest  of  my  wait. 
Then  Johnny  Upright  himself  arrived,  and  I  was 
summoned  upstairs  to  confer  with  him. 

"  Speak  loud,"  he  interrupted  my  opening  words. 
"  I've  got  a  bad  cold,  and  I  can't  hear  well." 


JOHNNY   UPRIGHT  21 

Shades  of  Old  Sleuth  and  Sherlock  Holmes! 
I  wondered  as  to  where  the  assistant  was  located 
whose  duty  it  was  to  take  down  whatever  informa 
tion  I  might  loudly  vouchsafe.  And  to  this  day, 
much  as  I  have  seen  of  Johnny  Upright  and  much 
as  I  have  puzzled  over  the  incident,  I  have  never 
been  quite  able  to  make  up  my  mind  as  to  whether 
or  not  he  had  a  cold,  or  had  an  assistant  planted 
in  the  other  room.  But  of  one  thing  I  am  sure; 
though  I  gave  Johnny  Upright  the  facts  concern 
ing  myself  and  project,  he  withheld  judgment  till 
next  day,  when  I  dodged  into  his  street  conven 
tionally  garbed  and  in  a  hansom.  Then  his  greet 
ing  was  cordial  enough,  and  I  went  down  into  the 
dining  room  to  join  the  family  at  tea. 

"  We  are  humble  here,"  he  said,  "  not  given  to 
the  flesh,  and  you  must  take  us  for  wrhat  we  are, 
in  our  humble  way." 

The  girls  were  flushed  and  embarrassed  at  greeting 
me,  while  he  did  not  make  it  any  the  easier  for  them. 

"  Ha !  ha ! "  he  roared  heartily,  slapping  the  table 
with  his  open  hand  till  the  dishes  rang.  "  The 
girls  thought  yesterday  you  had  come  to  ask  for 
a  piece  of  bread !  Ha !  ha !  ho !  ho  !  ho !  " 

This  they  indignantly  denied,  with  snapping  eyes 
and  guilty  red  cheeks,  as  though  it  were  an  essen 
tial  of  true  refinement  to  be  able  to  discern  under 
his  rags  a  man  who  had  no  need  to  go  ragged. 


22  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

And  then,  while  I  ate  bread  and  marmalade, 
proceeded  a  play  at  cross  purposes,  the  daughters 
deeming  it  an  insult  to  me  that  I  should  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  beggar,  and  the  father  con 
sidering  it  as  the  highest  compliment  to  my  clever 
ness  to  succeed  in  being  so  mistaken.  All  of 
which  I  enjoyed,  and  the  bread,  the  marmalade, 
and  the  tea,  till  the  time  came  for  Johnny  Upright 
to  find  me  a  lodging,  which  he  did,  not  half  a 
dozen  doors  away,  on  his  own  respectable  and 
opulent  street,  in  a  house  as  like  to  his  own  as  a 
pea  to  its  mate. 


CHAPTER   III 

MY    LODGING    AND    SOME    OTHERS 

The  poor,  the  poor,  the  poor,  they  stand, 
Wedged  by  the  pressing  of  Trade's  hand, 
Against  an  inward-opening  door 
That  pressure  tightens  evermore ; 
They  sigh  a  monstrous,  foul-air  sigh 
For  the  outside  leagues  of  liberty, 
*  Where  art,  sweet  lark,  translates  the  sky 

Into  a  heavenly  melody. 

—  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

FROM  an  East  London  standpoint,  the  room  I 
rented  for  six  shillings,  or  a  dollar  and  a  half,  per 
week  was  a  most  comfortable  affair.  From  the 
American  standpoint,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was 
rudely  furnished,  uncomfortable,  and  small.  By 
the  time  I  had  added  an  ordinary  typewriter  table 
to  its  scanty  furnishing,  I  was  hard  put  to  turn 
around ;  at  the  best,  I  managed  to  navigate  it  by 
a  sort  of  vermicular  progression  requiring  great 
dexterity  and  presence  of  mind. 

Having  settled  myself,  or  my  property  rather, 
I  put  on  my  knockabout  clothes  and  went  out 
for  a  walk.  Lodgings  being  fresh  in  my  mind,  I 
began  to  look  them  up,  bearing  in  mind  the 

23 


24  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

hypothesis    that    I    was    a    poor    young    man    with 
a  wife  and  large  family. 

My  first  discovery  was  that  empty  houses  were 
few  and  far  between.  So  far  between,  in  fact,  that 
though  I  walked  miles  in  irregular  circles  over  a 
lar^e  area,  I  still  remained  between.  Not  one 


A  HOUSE  TO  LET. 

empty  house  could  I  find  —  a  conclusive  proof  that 
the  district  was  '  saturated.' 

It  being  plain  that  as  a  poor  young  man  with  a 
family  I  could  rent  no  houses  at  all  in  this  most 
undesirable  region,  I  next  looked  for  rooms,  un 
furnished  rooms,  in  which  I  could  store  my  wife 


MY   LODGING   AND    SOME   OTHERS  25 

and  babies  and  chattels.  There  were  not  many, 
but  I  found  them,  usually  in  the  singular,  for  one 
appears  to  be  considered  sufficient  for  a  poor  man's 
family  in  which  to  cook  and  eat  and  sleep.  When 
I  asked  for  two  rooms,  the  sublettees  looked  at 
me  very  much  in  the  manner,  I  imagine,  that  a 
certain  personage  looked  at  Oliver  Twist  when  he 
asked  for  more. 

Not  only  was  one  room  deemed  sufficient  for  a 
poor  man  and  his  family,  but  I  learned  that  many 
families,  occupying  single  rooms,  had  so  much  space 
to  spajre  as  to  be  able  to  take  in  a  lodger  or  two.  When 
such  rooms  can  be  rented  for  from  75  cents  to  $1.50 
per  week,  it  is  a  fair  conclusion  that  a  lodger  with 
references  should  obtain  floor  space  for,  say  from 
15  to  25  cents.  He  may  even  be  able  to  board  with 
the  sublettees  for  a  few  shillings  more.  This, 
however,  I  failed  to  inquire  into  —  a  reprehensible 
error  on  my  part,  considering  that  I  was  working 
on  the  basis  of  a  hypothetical  family. 

Not  only  did  the  houses  I  investigated  have  no 
bath-tubs,  but  I  learned  that  there  were  no  bath-tubs 
in  all  the  thousands  of  houses  I  had  seen.  Under 
the  circumstances,  with  mv  wife  and  babies  and  a 

J 

couple  of  lodgers  suffering  from  the  too-great  spa 
ciousness  of  one  room,  taking  a  bath  in  a  tin  wash 
basin  would  be  an  unfeasible  undertaking.  But, 
it  seems,  the  compensation  comes  in  with  the  sav- 


26  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

ing  of  soap,  so  all's  well,  and  God's  still  in  heaven. 
Besides,  so  beautiful  is  the  adjustment  of  all  things 
in  this  world,  here  in  East  London  it  rains  nearly 
every  day,  and,  willy-nilly,  our  baths  would  be  on 
tap  upon  the  street. 

True,  the  sanitation  of  the  places  I  visited  was 
wretched.  From  the  imperfect  sewage  and  drain 
age,  defective  traps,  poor  ventilation,  dampness,  and 
general  foulness,  I  might  expect  my  \vife  and  babies 
speedily  to  be  attacked  by  diphtheria,  croup,  typhoid, 
erysipelas,  blood  poisoning,  bronchitis,  pneumonia, 
consumption,  and  various  kindred  disorders.  Cer 
tainly  the  death-rate  would  be  exceedingly  high. 
But  observe  again  the  beauty  of  the  adjustment. 
The  most  rational  act  for  a  poor  man  in  East 
London  with  a  large  family  is  to  get  rid  of  it ;  the 
conditions  in  East .  London  are  such  that  they  will 
get  rid  of  the  large  family  for  him.  Of  course, 
there  is  the  chance  that  he  may  perish  in  the 
process.  Adjustment  is  not  so  apparent  in  this 
event ;  but  it  is  there,  somewhere,  I  am  sure.  And 
when  discovered  it  will  prove  to  be  a  very  beautiful 
and  subtle  adjustment,  or  else  the  whole  scheme 
goes  awry  and  something  is  wrong. 

However,  I  rented  no  rooms,  but  returned  to  my 
own  Johnny  Upright's  street.  What  with  my  wife, 
and  babies,  and  lodgers,  and  the  various  cubby 
holes  into  which  I  had  fitted  them,  my  mind's  eye 


MY  LODGING   AND    SOME   OTHERS  27 

had  become  narrow-angled,  and  I  could  not  quite 
take  in  all  of  my  own  room  at  once.  The  immen 
sity  of  it  was  awe-inspiring.  Could  this  be  'the 
room  I  had  rented  for  six  shillings  a  week?  Im- 


A  HorsE  'io  I.I--.T. 


possible !  But  my  landlady,  knocking  at  the  door 
to  learn  if  I  were  comfortable,  dispelled  my  doubts. 
"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  a  question. 
"'  This  street  is  the  very  last.  All  the  other  streets 
were  like  this  eight  or  ten  years  ago,  and  all  the 
people  were  very  respectable.  But  the  others  have 


28  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

driven  our  kind  out.  Those  on  this  street  are  the 
only  ones  left.  It's  shocking,  sir!  " 

And  then  she  explained  the  process  of  saturation, 
by  which  the  rental  value  of  a  neighborhood  went 
up  while  its  tone  went  down. 

"  You  see,  sir,  our  kind  are  not  used  to  crowding 
in  the  way  the  others  do.  We  need  more  room. 
The  others,  the  foreigners  and  lower-class  people, 
can  get  five  and  six  families  into  this  house,  where 
we  only  get  one.  So  they  can  pay  more  rent  for 
the  house  than  we  can  afford.  It  is  shocking,  sir  ; 
and  just  to  think,  only  a  few  years  ago  all  this 
neighborhood  was  just  as  nice  as  it  could  be." 

I  looked  at  her.  Here  was  a  woman,  of  the 
finest  grade  of  the  English  working  class,  with 
numerous  evidences  of  refinement,  being  slowly 
engulfed  by  that  noisome  and  rotten  tide  of  human 
ity  which  the  powers  that  be  are  pouring  eastward 
out  of  London  Town.  Bank,  factory,  hotel,  and 
office  building  must  go  up,  and  the  city  poor  folk 
are  a  nomadic  breed ;  so  they  migrate  eastward, 
wave  upon  wave,  saturating  and  degrading  neigh 
borhood  byt  neighborhood,  driving  the  better  class 
of  workers  before  them  to  pioneer  on  the  rim 
of  the  city,  or  dragging  them  down,  if  not  in 
the  first  generation,  surely  in  the  second  and  third. 

It  is  only  a  question  of  months  when  Johnny 
Upright's  street  must  go.  He  realizes  it  himself. 


MY  LODGING  AND  SOME  OTHERS        29 

"In  a  couple  of  years,"  he  says,  "  my  lease  ex 
pires.  My  landlord  is  one  of  our  kind.  He  has 
not  put  up  the  rent  on  any  of  his  houses  here,  and 
this  has  enabled  us  to  stay.  But  any  day  he  may 
sell,  or  any  day  he  may  die,  which  is  the  same  thing 
so  far  as  we  are  concerned.  The  house  is  bought 
by  a  money  breeder,  who  builds  a  sweat  shop  on 
the  patch  of  ground  at  the  rear  where  my  grapevine 
is,  adds  to  the  house,  and  rents  it  a  room  to  a  family. 
There  you  are,  and  Johnny  Upright's  gone  !  " 

And   truly  I   saw   Johnny  Upright,  and   his  good 

wife  and  fair  daughters,  and  frowzy   slavey,  like  so 

*  .    ^ 

many  ghosts,  flitting  eastward  through  the  gloom, 

the   monster  city  roaring  at   their  heels. 

But  Johnny  Upright  is  not  alone  in  his  flitting. 
Far,  far  out,  on  the  fringe  of  the  city,  live  the  small 
business  men,  little  managers,  and  successful  clerks. 
Thev  dwell  in  cottatres  and  semidetached  villas, 

j  O 

with  bits  of  flower  garden,  and  elbow  room,  and 
breathing  space.  They  inflate  themselves  with  pride 
and  throw  chests  when  they  contemplate  the  Abyss 
from  which  they  have  escaped,  and  they  thank  God 
that  they  are  not  as  other  men.  And  lo !  down 
upon  them  comes  Johnny  Upright  and  the  mon 
ster  city  at  his  heels.  Tenements  spring  up  like 
magic,  gardens  are  built  upon,  villas  are  divided 
and  subdivided  into  many  dwellings,  and  the  black 
night  of  London  settles  down  in  a  greasy  pall. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A    MAN    AND    THE    ABYSS 

After  a  momentary  silence  spake 
Some  vessel  of  a  more  ungainly  make  ; 

They  sneer  at  me  for  leaning  all  awry : 
What  !  did  the  hand  then  of  the  Potter  shake? 

—  OMAR  KHAYYAM. 

"  I  SAY,  can  you  let  a  lodging  ?  " 

These  words  I  discharged  carelessly  over  my 
shoulder  at  a  stout  and  elderly  woman,  of  whose 
fare  I  was  partaking  in  a  greasy  coffee-house  down 
near  the  Pool  and  not  very  far  from  Limehouse. 

"  Oh,  yus,"  she  answered  shortly,  my  appearance 
possibly  not  approximating  the  standard  of  affluence 
required  by  her  house. 

I  said  no  more,  consuming  my  rasher  of  bacon 
and  pint  of  sickly  tea  in  silence.  Nor  did  she  take 
further  interest  in  me  till  I  came  to  pay  my  reckon 
ing  (fourpence),  when  I  pulled  all  of  ten  shillings 
out  of  my  pocket.  The  expected  result  was  pro 
duced. 

"  Yus,  sir,"  she  at  once  volunteered ;  "  I  'ave  nice 
lodgin's  you'd  likely  tyke  a  fancy  to.  Back  from 
a  voyage,  sir  ?  " 

3° 


A   MAN    AND    THE    ABYSS  3! 

"  How  much  for  a  room  ? "  I  inquired,  ignoring 
her  curiosity. 

She  looked  me  up  and  down  with  frank  surprise. 
"  I  don't  let  rooms,  not  to  my  reg'lar  lodgers,  much 
less  casuals." 

"  Then  I'll  have  to  look  along  a  it,"  I  said,  with 
marked  disappointment. 

But  the  sight  of  my  ten  shillings  had  made  her 
keen.  "  I  can  let  you  'ave  a  nice  bed  in  with  two 
hother  men,"  she  urged.  "  Good  respectable  men, 
an'  steady." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  sleep  with  two  other  men," 
I  objected. 

"  You  don't  'ave  to.  There's  three  beds  in  the 
room,  an'  hit's  not  a  very  small  room." 

"How  much?"  I  demanded. 

"  Arf  a  crown  a  week,  two  an'  six,  to  a  regular 
lodsrer.  You'll  fancy  the  men,  I'm  sure.  One 

O  J 

works  in  the  ware'ouse,  an'  'e's  bin  with  me  two 
years,  now.  An'  the  bother's  bin  with  me  six. 
Six  years,  sir,  an'  two  months  comin'  nex'  Saturday. 

"  'E's  a  scene-shifter,"  she  went  on.  "  A  steady, 
respectable  man,  never  missin'  a  night's  work  in 
the  time  'e's  bin  with  me.  An'  'e  likes  the  'ouse ; 
'e  says  as  it's  the  best  'e  can  do  in  the  w'y  of  lodgin's. 
I  board  'im,  an'  the  hother  lodgers  too." 

"  I  suppose  he's  saving  money  right  along,"  I 
insinuated  innocently. 


32  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

"  Bless  you,  no !  Nor  can  'e  do  as  well  helse- 
where  with  'is  money." 

And  I  thought  of  my  own  spacious  West,  with 
room  under  its  sky  and  unlimited  air  for  a  thou 
sand  Londons;  and  here  was  this  man,  a  steady 
and  reli;  ole  man,  never  missing  a  night's  work, 
frugal  ai.i  honest,  lodging  in  one  room  with  two 
other  men,  paying  two  dollars  and  a  half  per  month 
for  it,  and  out  of  his  experience  adjudging  it  to 
be  the  best  he  could  do !  And  here  was  I,  on 
the  strength  of  the  ten  shillings  in  my  pocket,  able 
to  enter  in  with  my  rags  and  take  up  my  bed  with 
him.  The  human  soul  is  a  lonely  thing,  but  it 
must  be  very  lonely  sometimes  when  there  are 
three  beds  to  a  room,  and  casuals  with  ten  shil 
lings  are  admitted. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Thirteen  years,  sir ;  an'  don't  you  think  you'll 
fancy  the  lodgin'  ?  " 

The  while  she  talked  she  was  shuffling  ponder 
ously  about  the  small  kitchen  in  which  she  cooked 
the  food  for  her  lodgers  who  were  also  boarders. 
When  I  first  entered,  she  had  been  hard  at  work, 
nor  had  she  let  up  once  throughout  the  conversa 
tion.  Undoubtedly  she  was  a  busy  woman.  "  Up 
at  half-past  five,"  "  to  bed  the  last  thing  at  night," 
"workin*  fit  ter  drop,"  thirteen  years  of  it,  and  for 
reward,  gray  hairs,  frowzy  clothes,  stooped  shoulders, 


A   MAN  AND   THE   ABYSS  33 

slatternly  figure,  unending  toil  in  a  foul  and  noi 
some  coffee-house  that  faced  on  an  alley  ten  feet 
between  the  walls,  and  a  waterside  environment 
that  was  ugly  and  sickening  to  say  the  least. 

"You'll  be  hin  hagain  to  'ave  a  look?"  she  ques 
tioned  wistfully,  as  I  went  out  of  the  door. 

And  as  I  turned  and  looked  at  her,  I  realized  to 
the  full  the  deeper  truth  underlying  that  very  wise 
old  maxim :  '  Virtue  is  its  own  reward.' 

I  went  back  to  her.  "  Have  you  ever  taken  a 
vacation  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Vycytion  !  " 

"  A  trip  to  the  country  for  a  couple  of  days,  fresh 
air,  a  clay  off,  you  know,  a  rest." 

"  Lor'  lumme  ! "  she  laughed,  for  the  first  time 
stopping  from  her  work.  "  A  vycytion,  eh  ?  for  the 
likes  o'  me?  Just  fancy,  now!  —  Mind  yer  feet!" 
—  this  last  sharply,  and  to  me,  as  I  stumbled  over 
the  rotten  threshold. 

Down  near  the  West  India  Dock  I  came  upon  a 
young  fellow  staring  disconsolately  at  the  muddy 
water.  A  fireman's  cap  \vas  pulled  down  across  his 
eyes,  and  the  fit  and  sag  of  his  clothes  whispered 
unmistakably  of  the  sea. 

"  Hello,  mate,"  I  greeted  him,  sparring  for  a  be 
ginning.  "  Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Wapping  ?  " 

"  Worked  yer  way  over  on  a  cattle  boat  ?  "  he 
countered,  fixing  my  nationality  on  the  instant. 


34 


THE  PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


And  thereupon  we  entered  upon  a  talk  that  ex 
tended  itself  to  a  public  house  and  a  couple  of  pints 
of  '  arf  an'  arf.'  This  led  to  closer  intimacy,  so  that 
when  I  brought  to  light  all  of  a  shilling's  worth  of 
coppers  (ostensibly  my  all),  and  put  aside  sixpence 


A  DKSCENDANT  OF  TIIK  SKA  KINGS. 

for  a  bed,  and  sixpence  for  more  arf  an'  arf,  he 
generously  proposed  that  \ve  drink  up  the  whole 
shilling. 

"  My  mate,  'e  cut  up  rough  las'  night,"  he  ex 
plained.  "  An'  the  bobbies  got  'm,  so  you  can  bunk 
in  wi'  me.  Wotcher  say  ?  " 

I  said  yes,  and  by  the  time  we  had  soaked  our- 


A  MAN   AND   THE   ABYSS  35 

selves  in  a  whole  shilling's  worth  of  beer,  and  slept 
the  night  on  a  miserable  bed  in  a  miserable  den,  I 
knew  him  pretty  fairly  for  what  he  was.  And  that 
in  one  respect  he  was  representative  of  a  large  body 
of  the  lower-class  London  workman,  my  later  ex 
perience  substantiates. 

He  was  London-born,  his  father  a  fireman  and  a 
drinker  before  him.  As  a  child,  his  home  was  the 
streets  and  the  docks.  He  had  never  learned  to 
read,  and  had  never  felt  the  need  for  it  —  a  vain 
and  useless  accomplishment,  he  held,  at  least  for  a 
manpf  his  station  in  life. 

He  had  had  a  mother  and  numerous  squalling 
brothers  and  sisters,  all  crammed  into  a  couple  of 
rooms  and  living  on  poorer  and  less  regular  food 
than  he  could  ordinarily  rustle  for  himself.  In  fact, 
he  never  went  home  except  at  periods  when  he  was 
unfortunate  in  procuring  his  own  food.  Petty  pil 
fering  and  begging  along  the  streets  and  docks,  a 
trip  or  two  to  sea  as  mess-boy,  a  few  trips  more  as 
coal-trimmer,  and  then,  a  full-fledged  fireman,  he 
had  reached  the  top  of  his  life. 

And  in  the  course  of  this  he  had  also  hammered 
out  a  philosophy  of  life,  an  ugly  and  repulsive  phi 
losophy,  but  withal  a  very  logical  and  sensible  one 
from  his  point  of  view.  When  I  asked  him  what 
he  lived  for,  he  immediately  answered,  "  Booze." 
A  voyage  to  sea  (for  a  man  must  live  and  get  the 


36          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

wherewithal),  and  then  the  paying  off  and  the  big 
drunk  at  the  end.  After  that,  haphazard  little 
drunks,  sponged  in  the  '  pubs '  from  mates  with  a 
few  coppers  left,  like  myself,  and  when  sponging 
was  played  out  another  trip  to  sea  and  a  repetition 
of  the  beastly  cycle. 

"  But  women,"  I  suggested,  when  he  had  finished 
proclaiming  booze  the  sole  end  of  existence. 

"  Wimmen !  "  He  thumped  his  pot  upon  the 
bar  and  orated  eloquently.  "  Wimmen  is  a  thing 
my  edication  'as  learnt  me  t'  let  alone.  It  don't 
pay,  matey;  it  don't  pay.  Wot's  a  man  like  me 
want  o'  wimmen,  eh  ?  jest  you  tell  me.  There  was 
my  mar,  she  was  enough,  a-bangin'  the  kids  about 
an'  makin'  the  ole  man  mis'rable  when  'e  come  'ome, 
w'ich  was  seldom,  I  grant.  An'  fer  w'y  ?  Becos  o' 
mar!  She  didn't  make  'is  'ome  'appy,  that  was 
w'y.  Then,  there's  the  other  wimmen,  'ow  do  they 
treat  a  pore  stoker  with  a  few  shillin's  in  'is 
trouseys?  A  good  drunk  is  wot  'e's  got  in  'is 
pockits,  a  good  long  drunk,  an'  the  wimmen  skin 
'im  out  of  'is  money  so  quick  'e  ain't  'ad  'ardly  a 
glass.  I  know.  I've  'ad  my  fling  an'  I  know  wot's 
wot. 

"An'  I  tell  you,  where's  wimmen  is  trouble  — 
screechin'  an'  carryin'  on,  fightin',  cuttin',  bobbies, 
magistrates,  an'  a  month's  'a ret  labor  back  of  it  all, 
an'  no  pay-day  when  you  come  out." 


A   MAN   AND    THE   ABYSS  37 

"But  a  wife  and  children,"  I  insisted.  "  A  home 
of  your  own,  and  all  that.  Think  of  it,  back  from 
a  voyage,  little  children  climbing  on  your  knee,  and 
the  wife  happy  and  smiling,  and  a  kiss  for  you 
when  she  lays  the  table,  and  a  kiss  all  around  from 
the  babies  when  they  go  to  bed,  and  the  kettle 
singing  and  the  long  talk  afterward  of  where  you've 
been  and  what  you've  seen,  and  of  her  and  all  the 
little  happenings  at  home  while  you've  been  away, 
and  —  "  J 

"  Garn  !  "  he  cried,  with  a  playful  shove  of  his  fist 
on  m£  shoulder.  "  Wot's  yer  game,  eh  ?  A  missus 
kissin',  an'  kids  clim'in',  an'  kettle  singin',  all  on 
four  poini'  ten  a  month  w'en  you  'ave  a  ship,  an* 
four  nothin'  w'en  you  'aven't.  I'll  tell  you  wot 
I'd  get  on  four  poun'  ten  —  a  missus  rowin', 
kids  squallin',  no  coal  t'  make  the  kettle  sing, 
an'  the  kettle  up  the  spout,  that's  wot  I'd  get. 
Enough  t'  make  a  bloke  bloomin'  well  glad  to 
be  back  t'  sea.  A  missus !  Wot  for  ?  T'  make 
you  mis'rable  ?  Kids  ?  Jest  take  my  counsel, 
matey,  an'  don't  'ave  'em.  Look  at  me !  I  can 
'ave  my  beer  w'en  I  like,  an'  no  blessed  missus 
an'  kids  a-cryin'  for  bread.  I'm  'appy,  I  am,  with 
my  beer  an'  mates  like  you,  an'  a  good  ship  comin', 
an'  another  trip  to  sea.  So  I  say,  let's  'ave  another 
pint.  Arf  an'  arf's  good  enough  fer  me." 

Without  going  further  with  the  speech  of  this 


38          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

young  fellow  of  two  and  twenty,  I  think  I  have 
sufficiently  indicated  his  philosophy  of  life  a"nd  the 
underlying  economic  reason  for  it.  Home  life  he 
had  never  known.  The  word  '  home  '  aroused  noth 
ing  but  unpleasant  associations.  In  the  low  wao:es 

O  1  o 


WHERE  THE  CHILDREN  GROW  UP. 

of  his  father,  and  of  other  men  in  the  same  walk  in 
life,  he  found  sufficient  reason  for  branding  wife 
and  children  as  encumbrances  and  causes  of  mas 
culine  misery.  An  unconscious  hedonist,  utterly 
unmoral  and  materialistic,  he  sought  the  greatest 
possible  happiness  for  himself,  and  found  it  in  drink. 


A  MAN   AND   THE   ABYSS  39 

A  young  sot ;  a  premature  wreck ;  physical  ina 
bility  to  do  a  stoker's  work ;  the  gutter  or  the 
workhouse;  and  the  end,  —  he  saw  it  all,  as  clearly 
as  I,  but  it  held  no  terrors  for  him.  From  the 
moment  of  his  birth,  all  the  forces  of  his  environ 
ment  had  tended  to  harden  him,  and  he  viewed  his 
wretched,  inevitable  future  with  a  callousness  and 

unconcern  I  could  not  shake. 

/ 

And  yet  he  was  not  a  bad  man.  He  was  not 
inherently  vicious  and  brutal.  He  had  normal 
mentality,  and  a  more  than  average  physique. 
His  *eyes  were  blue  and  round,  shaded  by  long 
lashes,  and  wide  apart.  And  there  was  a  laugh 
in  them,  and  a  fund  of  humor  behind.  The  brow 
and  general  features  were  good,  the  mouth  and  lips 
sweet,  though  already  developing  a  harsh  twist. 
The  chin  was  weak,  but  not  too  weak ;  I  have  seen 
men  sitting  in  the  high  places  with  weaker. 

His  head  was  shapely,  and  so  gracefully  was  it 
poised  upon  a  perfect  neck  that  I  was  not  surprised 
by  his  body  that  night  when  he  stripped  for  bed. 
I  have  seen  many  men  strip,  in  gymnasium  and 
training  quarters,  men  of  good  blood  and  upbring 
ing,  but  I  have  never  seen  one  who  stripped  to 
better  advantage  than  this  young  sot  of  two  and 
twenty,  this  young  god  doomed  to  rack  and  ruin 
in  four  or  five  short  years,  and  to  pass  hence  with 
out  posterity  to  receive  the  splendid  heritage  it  was 
his  to  bequeath. 


40          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

It  seemed  sacrilege  to  waste  such  life,  and  yet  I 
was  forced  to  confess  that  he  was  right  in  not 
marrying  on  four  pound  ten  in  London  Town. 
Just  as  the  scene-shifter  was  happier  in  making 
both  ends  meet  in  a  room  shared  with  two  other 
men,  than  he  would  have  been  had  he  packed  a 
feeble  family  along  with  a  couple  of  men  into  a 
cheaper  room,  and  failed  in  making  both  ends  meet. 

And  clay  by  day  I  became  convinced  that  not 
only  is  it  unwise,  but  it  is  criminal  for  the  people  of 
the  Abyss  to  marry.  They  are  the  stones  by  the 
builder  rejected.  There  is  no  place  for  them  in 
the  social  fabric,  while  all  the  forces  of  society 
drive  them  downward  till  they  perish.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  Abyss  they  are  feeble,  besotted,  and 
imbecile.  If  they  reproduce,  the  life  is  so  cheap 
that  perforce  it  perishes  of  itself.  The  work  of 
the  world  goes  on  above  them,  and  they  do  not 
care  to  take  part  in  it,  nor  are  they  able.  More 
over,  the  work  of  the  world  does  not  need  them. 
There  are  plenty,  far  fitter  than  they,  clinging  to 
the  steep  slope  above,  and  struggling  frantically  to 
slide  no  more. 

In  short,  the  London  Abyss  is  a  vast  shambles. 
Year  by  year,  and  decade  after  decade,  rural  Eng 
land  pours  in  a  flood  of  vigorous  strong  life,  that 
not  only  does  not  renew  itself,  but  perishes  by  the 
third  generation.  Competent  authorities  aver  that 


A   MAN   AND    THE   ABYSS  41 

the  London  workman  whose  parents  and  grand 
parents  were  born  in  London  is  so  remarkable  a 
specimen  that  he  is  rarely  found. 

Mr.  A.  C.  Pigou  has  said  that  the  aged  poor  and 
the  residuum  which  compose  the  '  submerged 
tenth,'  constitute  7-^  per  cent  of  the  population  of 
London.  Which  is  to  say  that  last  year,  and  yes 
terday,  and  to-day,  at  this  very  moment,  450,000 
of  these  creatures  are  dying  miserably  at  the  bottom 
of  the  social  pit  called  "  London."  As  to  how  they 
die,  I  shall  take  an  instance  from  this  morning's 

paper.  * 

Self-neglect 

Yesterday  Dr.  Wynn  Westcott  held  an  inquest  at 
Shoreditch,  respecting  the  death  of  Elizabeth  Crews, 
aged  77  years,  of  32  East  Street,  Holborn,  who  died  on 
Wednesday  last.  Alice  Mathieson  stated  that  she  was 
landlady  of  the  house  where  deceased  lived.  Witness 
last  saw  her  alive  on  the  previous  Monday.  She  lived 
quite  alone.  Mr.  Francis  Birch,  relieving  officer  for  the 
Holborn  district,  stated  that  deceased  had  occupied  the 
room  in  question  for  35  years.  When  witness  was  called, 
on  the  1st,  he  found  the  old  woman  in  a  terrible  state,  and 
the  ambulance  and  coachman  had  to  be  disinfected  after 
the  removal.  Dr.  Chase  Fennell  said  death  was  due  to 
blood-poisoning  from  bed-sores,  due  to  self-neglect  and 
filthy  surroundings,  and  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  to 
that  effect. 

The  most  startling  thing  about  this  little  incident 
of  a  woman's  death  is  the  smug  complacency  with 


42  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

which  the  officials  looked  upon  it  and  rendered 
judgment.  That  an  old  woman  of  seventy-seven 
years  of  age  should  die  of  SELF-NEGLECT  is  the  most 
optimistic  way  possible  of  looking  at  it  It  was 
the  old  dead  woman's  fault  that  she  died,  and  hav 
ing  located  the  responsibility,  society  goes  con 
tentedly  on  about  its  own  affairs. 

Of  the  'submerged  tenth,'  Mr.  Pigou  has  said: 
"  Either  through  lack  of  bodily  strength,  or  of 
intelligence,  or  of  fibre,  or  of  all  three,  they  are 
inefficient  or  unwilling  workers,  and  consequently 
unable  to  support  themselves.  .  .  .  They  are  so 
often  degraded  in  intellect  as  to  be  incapable  of 
distinguishing  their  right  from  their  left  hand,  or 
of  recognizing  the  numbers  of  their  own  houses; 
their  bodies  are  feeble  and  without  stamina,  their 
affections  are  warped,  and  they  scarcely  know  what 
family  life  means." 

Four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  is  a  whole  lot 
of  people.  The  young  fireman  was  only  one,  and 
it  took  him  some  time  to  say  his  little  say.  I 
should  not  like  to  hear  them  all  talk  at  once.  I 
wonder  if  God  hears  them  ? 


CHAPTER   V 

THOSE    ON    THE    EDGE 

I  assure  you  I  found  nothing  worse,  nothing  more  degrading,  nothing 
so  hopeless,  nothing  nearly  so  intolerably  dull  and  miserable  as  the  life 
I  left  behind  me  in  the  East  End  of  London. 

—  HUXLEY. 

MY  first  impression  of  East  London  was  natu 
rally  a  general  one.  Later  the  details  began  to 
appear,  and  here  and  there  in  the  chaos  of  misery 
I  found  little  spots  where  a  fair  measure  of  happi 
ness  reigned,  —  sometimes  whole  rows  of  houses 
in  little  out-of-the-way  streets,  where  artisans  dwell 
and  where  a  rude  sort  of  family  life  obtains.  In 
the  evenings  the  men  can  be  seen  at  the  doors, 
pipes  in  their  mouths  and  children  on  their  knees, 
wives  gossiping,  and  laughter  and  fun  going  on. 
The  content  of  these  people  is  manifestly  great, 
for,  relative  to  the  wretchedness  that  encompasses 
them,  they  are  well  off. 

But  at  the  best,  it  is  a  dull,  animal  happiness, 
the  content  of  the  full  belly.  The  dominant  note 
of  their  lives  is  materialistic.  They  are  stupid  and 
heavy,  without  imagination.  The  Abyss  seems 
to  exude  a  stupefying  atmosphere  of  torpor,  which 

43 


44 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


Religion 


wraps  about  them  and  deadens  them, 
passes  them  by.  The  Unseen  holds  for  them 
neither  terror  nor  delight.  They  are  unaware  of 
the  Unseen ;  and  the  full  belly  and  the  evening 


'HERE  AND  THERE  I  FOUND  LITTLE  SPOTS  WHERE  A  FAIR  MEASURE  OF 
HAPPINESS  REIGNED." 


pipe,  with    their   regular    '  arf   an'  arf,'  is    all    they 
demand,  or  dream  of  demanding,  from  existence. 

This  would  not  be  so  bad  if  it  were  all ;  but  it  is 
not  all.  The  satisfied  torpor  in  which  they  are 
sunk  is  the  deadly  inertia  that  precedes  dissolution. 
There  is  no  progress,  and  with  them  not  to  progress 
is  to  fall  back  and  into  the  Abyss.  In  their  own 


THOSE    ON    THE  EDGE 


45 


lives  they  may  only  start  to  fall,  leaving  the  fall  to 
be  completed  by  their  children  and  their  children's 
children.  Man  always  gets  less  than  he  demands 
from  life;  and  so  little  do  they  demand,  that  the 
less  than  little  they  get  cannot  save  them. 


"IN  THE  EVENING  THE  MEN  CAN  KE  SEEN  AT  THE  DOORS,  PIPES  IN  THEIR 
MOUTHS,  AND  CHILDREN  AT  THEIR  KNEES." 


At  the  best,  city  life  is  an  unnatural  life  for  the 
human ;  but  the  city  life  of  London  is  so  utterly 
unnatural  that  the  average  workman  or  workwoman 
cannot  stand  it.  Mind  and  body  are  sapped  by  the 
undermining  influences  ceaselessly  at  work.  Moral 


46          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

and  physical  stamina  are  broken,  and  the  good 
workman,  fresh  from  the  soil,  becomes  in  the  first 
city  generation  a  poor  workman ;  and  by  the  second 
city  generation,  devoid  of  push  and  go  and  initia 
tive,  and  actually  unable  physically  to  perform  the 
labor  his  father  did,  he  is  well  on  the  way  to  the 
shambles  at  the  bottom  of  the  Abyss. 

If  nothing  else,  the  air  he  breathes,  and  from 
which  he  never  escapes,  is  sufficient  to  weaken  him 
mentally  and  physically,  so  that  he  becomes  unable 
to  compete  with  the  fresh  virile  life  from  the  coun 
try  hastening  on  to  London  Town  to  destroy  and 
be  destroyed. 

Leaving  out  the  disease  germs  that  fill  the  air  of 
the  East  End,  consider  but  the  one  item  of  smoke. 
Sir  William  Thistle  ton- Dyer,  curator  of  Kew  Gar 
dens,  has  been  studying  smoke  deposits  on  vegeta 
tion,  and,  according  to  his  calculations,  no  less  than 
six  tons  of  solid  matter,  consisting  of  soot  and  tarry 
hydrocarbons,  are  deposited  every  week  on  every 
quarter  of  a  square  mile  in  and  about  London. 
This  is  equivalent  to  twenty-four  tons  per  week  to 
the  square  mile,  or  1248  tons  per  year  to  the  square 
mile.  From  the  cornice  below  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral  was  recently  taken  a  solid  deposit 
of  crystallized  sulphate  of  lime.  This  deposit  had 
been  formed  by  the  action  of  the  sulphuric  acid  in 
the  atmosphere  upon  the  carbonate  of  lime  in  the 


THOSE   ON   THE   EDGE  47 

stone.  And  this  sulphuric  acid  in  the  atmosphere 
is  constantly  being  breathed  by  the  London  work 
men  through  all  the  days  and  nights  of  their 
lives. 

It  is  incontrovertible  that  the  children  grow 
up  into  rotten  adults,  without  virility  or  stamina, 
a  weak-kneed,  narrow-chested,  listless  breed,  that 
crumples  up  and  goes  down  in  the  brute  struggle 
for  life  with  the  invading  hordes  from  the  country. 
The  railway  men,  carriers,  omnibus  drivers,  corn 
and  timber  porters,  and  all  those  \vho  require 
physical  stamina,  are  largely  drawn  from  the  coun 
try  ;  while  in  the  Metropolitan  Police  there  are, 
roughly,  12,000  country-born  as  against  3000  Lon 
don-born. 

So  one  is  forced  to  conclude  that  the  Abyss  is 
literally  a  huge  man-killing  machine,  and  when  I 
pass  along  the  little  out-of-the-way  streets  with  the 
full-bellied  artisans  at  the  doors,  I  am  aware  of  a 
greater  sorrow  for  them  than  for  the  450,000  lost 
and  hopeless  wretches  dying  at  the  bottom  of  the 
pit.  They,  at  least,  are  dying,  that  is  the  point; 
while  these  have  yet  to  go  through  the  slow  and 
preliminary  pangs  extending  through  two  and  even 
three  generations. 

And  yet  the  quality  of  the  life  is  good.  All 
human  potentialities  are  in  it.  Given  proper  con 
ditions,  it  could  live  through  the  centuries,  and 


48  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

great  men,  heroes  and  masters,  spring  from  it  and 
make  the  world  better  by  having  lived. 

I  talked  with  a  woman  who  was  representative 
of  that  type  which  has  been  jerked  out  of  its  little 
out-of-the-way  streets  and  has  started  on  the  fatal 
fall  to  the  bottom.  Her  husband  was  a  fitter  and 
a  member  of  the  Engineers'  Union.  That  he  was 
a  poor  engineer  was  evidenced  by  his  inability  to 
get  regular  employment.  He  did  not  have  the 
energy  and  enterprise  necessary  to  obtain  or  hold 
.a  steady  position. 

The  pair  had  two  daughters,  and  the  four  of 
them  lived  in  a  couple  of  holes,  called  '  rooms ' 
by  courtesy,  for  which  they  paid  seven  shillings 
per  week.  They  possessed  no  stove,  managing 
their  cooking  on  a  single  gas-ring  in  the  fireplace. 
Not  being  persons  of  property,  they  were  unable 
to  obtain  an  unlimited  supply  of  gas ;  but  a  clever 
machine  had  been  installed  for  their  benefit.  By 
dropping  a  penny  in  the  slot,  the  gas  was  forth 
coming,  and  when  a  penny's  worth  had  forthcome 
the  supply  was  automatically  shut  off.  "  A  penny 
gawn  in  no  time,"  she  explained,  "  an'  the  cookin' 
not  arf  done  !  " 

Incipient  starvation  had  been  their  portion  for 
years.  Month  in  and  month  out,  they  had  arisen 
from  the  table  able  and  willing  to  eat  more.  And 
when  once  on  the  downward  slope,  chronic  innutri- 


THOSE    ON    THE   EDGE  49 

tion  is  an  important  factor  in  sapping  vitality  and 
hastening  the  descent. 

Yet  this  woman  was  a  hard  worker.  From  4.30 
in  the  morning  till  the  last  light  at  night,  she  said, 
she  had  toiled  at  making  cloth  dress-skirts,  lined  up 
and  with  two  flounces,  for  seven  shillings  a  dozen. 
Cloth  dress-skirts,  mark  you,  lined  up  and  with  two 
flounces,  for  seven  shillings  a  dozen !  This  is  equal 
to  $1.75  per  dozen,  or  14^-  cents  per  skirt. 

The  husband,  in  order  to  obtain  employment,  had 
to  belong  to  the  union,  which  collected  one  shilling 
and  sixpence  from  him  each  week.  Also,  when 
strikes  were  afoot  and  he  chanced  to  be  working, 
he  had  at  times  been  compelled  to  pay  as  high  as 
seventeen  shillings  into  the  union's  coffers  for  the 

o 

relief  fund. 

One  daughter,  the  elder,  had  worked  as  green 
hand  for  a  dressmaker,  for  one  shilling  and  six 
pence  per  week  —  37^  cents  per  week,  or  a  fraction 
over  5  cents  per  day.  However,  when  the  slack 
season  came  she  was  discharged,  though  she  had. 
been  taken  on  at  such  low  pay  with  the  understand 
ing  that  she  was  to  learn  the  trade  and  work  up. 
After  that  she  had  been  employed  in  a  bicycle  store 
for  three  years,  for  which  she  received  five  shillings 
per  week,  walking  two  miles  to  her  work,  and  two 
back,  and  being  fined  for  tardiness. 

As  far  as  the  man  and  woman  were  concerned,  the 


50  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

game  was  played.  They  had  lost  handhold  and 
foothold,  and  were  falling  into  the  pit.  But  what 
of  the  daughters?  Living  like  swine,  enfeebled  by 
chronic  innutrition,  being  sapped  mentally,  morally, 
and  physically,  what  chance  have  they  to  crawl  up 
and  out  of  the  Abyss  into  which  they  were  born 
falling  ? 

As  I  write  this,  and  for  an  hour  past,  the  air  had 
been  made  hideous  by  a  free-for-all,  rough-and-tum 
ble  fight  going  on  in  the  yard  that  is  back  to  back 
with  my  yard.  When  the  first  sounds  reached  me 
I  took  it  for  the  barking  and  snarling  of  dogs,  and 
some  minutes  were  required  to  convince  me  that 
human  beings,  and  women  at  that,  could  produce 
such  a  fearful  clamor. 

Drunken    women    fi^htin^ !      It    is    not    nice    to 

O  O 

think  of;  it  is  far  worse  to  listen  to.  Something- 
like  this  it  runs  :  — 

Incoherent  babble,  shrieked  at  the  top  of  the 
lungs  of  several  women ;  a  lull,  in  which  is  heard  a 
child  crying  and  a  young  girl's  voice  pleading  tear 
fully;  a  woman's  voice  rises,  harsh  and  grating, 
"  You  'it  me  !  Jest  you  'it  me  !  "  then,  swat !  chal 
lenge  accepted  and  fight  rages  afresh. 

The  back  windows  of  the  houses  commanding 
the  scene  are  lined  with  enthusiastic  spectators,  and 
the  sound  of  blows,  and  of  oaths  that  make  one's 
blood  run  cold,  are  borne  to  my  ears. 


THOSE   ON   THE   EDGE  51 

A  lull;  "You  let  that  child  alone!"  child,  evi 
dently  of  few  years,  screaming  in  downright  terror; 
"  Awright,"  repeated  insistently  and  at  top  pitch 


DRUNKEN  WOMEN  FIGHTING. 


twenty  times  straight  running;  "You'll  git  this 
rock  on  the  'ead  ! "  and  then  rock  evidently  on  the 
head  from  the  shriek  that  goes  up. 

A    lull ;    apparently    one    combatant    temporarily 
disabled  and  being  resuscitated ;  child's  voice  audi- 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


ble  again,  but  now  sunk  to  a  lower  note  of  terror 
and  growing  exhaustion. 

Voices  begin  to  go  up  the  scale,  something  like 
this :  - 

"  Yes  ?  " 
"  Yes ! " 
"  Yes  ?  " 
"Yes!" 
"Yes?" 
"  Yes ! " 
"  Yes  ? " 
"  Yes ! " 

Sufficient  affirma 
tion  on  both  sides, 
conflict  again  pre- 
c  i  p  i  t  a  t  e  d.  One 
combatant  gets  over 
whelming  advan 
tage,  and  follows  it 
up  from  the  way 
other  combatant 

screams  bloody  murder.  Bloody  murder  gurgles 
and  dies  out,  undoubtedly  throttled  by  a  strangle 
hold. 

Entrance  of  new  voices ;  a  flank  attack  ;  strangle 
hold  suddenly  broken  from  way  bloody  murder  goes 
up  half  an  octave  higher  than  before ;  general  hulla- 
balloo,  everybody  fighting. 


"  CONFLICT  AGAIN  PRECIPITATED." 


THOSE   ON   THE   EDGE  53 

Lull ;  new  voice,  young  girl's,  "  I'm  goin'  ter  tyke 
my  mother's  part " ;  dialogue,  repeated  about  five 
times,  "I'll  do  as  I  like,  blankety,  blank,  blank!" 
"I'd  like  ter  see  yer,  blankety,  blank,  blank!"  re 
newed  conflict,  mothers,  daughters,  everybody,  dur 
ing  which  my  landlady  calls  her  young  daughter  in 
from  the  back  steps,  while  I  wonder  what  will  be  the 
effect  of  all  that  she  has  heard  upon  her  moral  fibre. 


CHAPTER   VI 

FRYING-PAN    ALLEY    AND    A    GLIMPSE    OF    INFERNO 

The  beasts  they  hunger,  and  eat,  and  die, 
And  so  do  we,  and  the  world's  a  sty. 
"  Swinehood  hath  no  remedy,'1 
Say  many  men,  and  hasten  by. 

—  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

THREE  of  us  walked  down  Mile  End  Road,  and 
one  was  a  hero.  He  was  a  slender  lad  of  nine 
teen,  so  slight  and  frail,  in  fact,  that,  like  Era 
Lippo  Lippi,  a  puff  of  wind  might  double  him 
up  and  turn  him  over.  He  was  a  burning  young 
socialist,  in  the  first  throes  of  enthusiasm  and 
ripe  for  martyrdom.  As  platform  speaker  or 
chairman  he  had  taken  an  active  and  dangerous 
part  in  the  many  indoor  and  outdoor  pro- Boer 
meetings  which  have  vexed  the  serenity  of  Merry 
England  these  several  years  back.  Little  items 
he  had  been  imparting  to  me  as  he  walked  along ; 
of  being  mobbed  in  parks  and  on  tram-cars ;  of 
climbing  on  the  platform  to  lead  the  forlorn 
hope,  when  brother  speaker  after  brother  speaker 
had  been  dragged  down  by  the  angry  crowd  and 
cruelly  beaten  ;  of  a  siege  in  a  church,  where  he 


FRYING-PAN  ALLEY  AND  A  GLIMPSE  OF   INFERNO        55 

and  three  others  had  taken  sanctuary,  and  where, 
amid  flying  missiles  and  the  crashing  of  stained 
glass,  they  had  fought  off  the  mob  till  rescued 
by  platoons  of  constables ;  of  pitched  and  giddy 
battles  on  stairways,  galleries,  and  balconies ;  of 
smashed  windows,  collapsed  stairways,  wrecked 
lecture  halls,  and  broken  heads  and  bones  —  and 
then,  with  a  regretful  sigh,  he  looked  at  me  and 
said:  "How  I  envy  you  big,  strong  men!  I'm 
such  a  little  mite  I  can't  do  much  when  it  comes 
to  fighting." 

And  I,  walking  a  head  and  shoulders  above  my 
two  companions,  remembered  my  own  husky  West 
and  the  stalwart  men  it  had  been  my  custom,  in 
turn,  to  envy  there.  Also,  as  I  looked  at  the 
mite  of  a  youth  with  the  heart  of  a  lion,  I  thought, 
this  is  the  type  that  on  occasion  rears  barricades 
and  shows  the  world  that  men  have  not  forgotten 
how  to  die. 

But  up  spoke  my  other  companion,  a  man  of 
twenty-eight  who  eked  out  a  precarious  existence 
in  a  sweating  den. 

"  I'm  a  'earty  man,  I  am,"  he  announced.  "  Not 
like  the  other  chaps  at  my  shop,  I  ain't.  They 
consider  me  a  fine  specimen  of  manhood.  W'y, 
d'  ye  know,  I  \veigh  one  hundred  and  forty 
pounds ! " 

I  was  ashamed  to  tell    him  that  I  weighed  one 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    THE    ABYSS 


hundred  and  seventy,  so  I  contented  myself  with 
taking  his  measure.  Poor,  misshapen  little  man  ! 
His  skin  an  unhealthy  color,  body  gnarled  and 
twisted  out  of  all  decency,  contracted  chest,  shoul 
ders  bent  prodigiously  from  long  hours  of  toil, 

and  head  hang 
ing  heavily  for 
ward  and  out  of 
place  !  A  "  'earty 
man,"  'e  was ! 

"  How  tall  are 
you  ?  " 

"Five  foot 
two,"  he  an 
swered  proudly ; 
"  an'  the  chaps  at 
the  shop  .  .  ." 

"  Let  me  see 
that  .  shop,"  I 
said. 

FRYING-PAN  ALLEY.  „,, 

1  he  shop  was 

idle  just  then,  but  I  still  desired  to  see  it.  Pass 
ing  Leman  Street,  we  cut  off  to  the  left  into 
Spitalfields,  and  dived  into  Frying-pan  Alley.  A 
spawn  of  children  cluttered  the  slimy  pavement, 
for  all  the  world  like  tadpoles  just  turned  frogs 
on  the  bottom  of  a  dry  pond.  In  a  narrow  door 
way,  so  narrow  that  perforce  we  stepped  over  her, 


FRYING-PAN  ALLEY  AND  A  GLIMPSE   OF  INFERNO       57 

sat  a  woman  with  a  young  babe  nursing  at  breasts 
grossly  naked  and  libelling  all  the  sacredness  of 
motherhood.  In  the  black  and  narrow  hall  behind 
her  we  waded  through  a  mess  of  young  life,  and 
essayed  an  even  narrower  and  fouler  stairway.  Up 
we  went,  three  flights,  each  landing  two  feet  by 
three  in  area,  and  heaped  with  filth  and  refuse. 

There  were  seven  rooms  in  this  abomination 
called  a  house.  In  six  of  the  rooms,  twenty-odd 
people,  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages,  cooked,  ate, 
slept,  and  worked.  In  size  the  rooms  averaged 
eight  *feet  by  eight,  or  possibly  nine.  The  sev 
enth  room  we  entered.  It  was  the  den  in  which 
five  men  '  sweated.'  It  was  seven  feet  wide  by 
eight  long,  and  the  table  at  which  the  work  was 
performed  took  up  the  major  portion  of  the  space. 
On  this  table  were  five  lasts,  and  there  was  barely 
room  for  the  men  to  stand  to  their  work,  for  the 
rest  of  the  space  was  heaped  with  cardboard, 
leather,  bundles  of  shoe  uppers,  and  a  miscellane 
ous  assortment  of  materials  used  in  attaching  the 
uppers  of  shoes  to  their  soles. 

In  the  adjoining  room  lived  a  woman  and  six 
children.  In  another  vile  hole  lived  a  widow,  with 
an  only  son  of  sixteen  who  was  dying  of  consump 
tion.  The  woman  hawked  sweetmeats  on  the 
street,  I  wras  told,  and  more  often  failed  than  not 
in  supplying  her  son  with  the  three  quarts  of  milk 


58  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

he  daily  required.  Further,  this  son,  weak  and 
dying,  did  not  taste  meat  oftener  than  once  a 
week ;  and  the  kind  and  quality  of  this  meat  can 
not  possibly  be  imagined  by  people  who  have  never 
watched  human  swine  eat. 

"  The  w'y  'e  coughs  is  somethin'  terrible,"  volun 
teered  my  sweated  friend,  referring  to  the  dying 
boy.  "  We  'ear  'im  'ere,  w'ile  we're  workin',  an' 
it's  terrible,  I  say,  terrible  !  " 

And,  what  of  the  coughing  and  the  sweetmeats, 
I  found  another  menace  added  to  the  hostile  en 
vironment  of  the  children  of  the  slum. 

My  sweated  friend,  when  \vork  was  to  be  had, 
toiled  with  four  other  men  in  this  eight-by-seven 
room.  In  winter  a  lamp  burned  nearly  all  the  day 
and  added  its  fumes  to  the  overloaded  air,  which 
was  breathed,  and  breathed,  and  breathed  again. 

In  good  times,  when  there  was  a  rush  of  work, 
this  man  told  me  that  he  could  earn  as  high  as 
'thirty  bob  a  week.' — Thirty  shillings!  Seven 
dollars  and  a  half ! 

"  But  it's  only  the  best  of  us  can  do  it,"  he  quali 
fied.  "  An'  then  we  work  twelve,  thirteen,  and  four 
teen  hours  a  day,  just  as  fast  as  we  can.  An'  you 
should  see  us  sweat!  Just  running  from  us!  If 
you  could  see  us,  it'd  dazzle  your  eyes  —  tacks 
flyin'  out  of  mouth  like  from  a  machine.  Look 
at  my  mouth." 


FRYING-PAN  ALLEY  AND  A  GLIMPSE   OF  INFERNO        59 

I  looked.  The  teeth  were  worn  down  by  the 
constant  friction  of  the  metallic  brads,  while  they 
were  coal-black  and  rotten. 

"  I  clean  my  teeth,"  he  added,  "  else  they'd  be 
worse." 

After  he  had  told  me  that  the  workers  had  to 
furnish  their  own  tools,  brads,  "  grindery,"  card 
board,  rent,  light,  and  what  not,  it  was  plain  that 
his  thirty  bob  was  a  diminishing  quantity. 

"  But  how  long  does  the  rush  season  last,  in 
which  you  receive  this  high  wage  of  thirty  bob  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"Four  months,"  was  the  answer;  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  year,  he  informed  me,  they  average 
from  '  half  a  quid  '  to  a  '  quid  '  a  week,  which  is 
equivalent  to  from  two  dollars  and  a  half  to  five 
dollars.  The  present  week  was  half  gone,  and 
he  had  earned  four  bob,  or  one  dollar.  And  yet 
I  was  given  to  understand  that  this  was  one  of 
the  better  grades  of  sweating. 

I  looked  out  of  the  window,  which  should  have 
commanded  the  back  yards  of  the  neighboring 
buildings.  But  there  were  no  back  yards,  or,  rather, 
they  were  covered  with  one-story  hovels,  cowsheds, 
in  which  people  lived.  The  roofs  of  these  hovels 
were  covered  with  deposits  of  filth,  in  some  places 
a  couple  of  feet  deep  —  the  contributions  from  the 
back  windows  of  the  second  and  third  stories.  I 


6o 


THE    PEOPLE    OF   THE    ABYSS 


could  make  out  fish  and  meat  bones,  garbage,  pes 
tilential  rags,  old  boots,  broken  earthenware,  and 
all  the  general  refuse  of  a  human  sty. 

"  This    is    the    last    year    of    this    trade ;     they're 
getting  machines   to   do   away   with   us,"    said    the 


"  IN   THE  SHADOW   OF   CHRIST'S   CHURCH,    1    SAW 

sweated   one   mournfully,   as  \ve    stepped   over  the 
woman  with  the  breasts  grossly  naked  and  waded 

O  J 

anew  through  the  cheap  young  life. 

We  next  visited  the  municipal  dwellings  erected 
by  the  London  County  Council  on  the  site  of  the 
slums  where  lived  Arthur  Morrison's  "  Child  of  the 
Jago."  While  the  buildings  housed  more  people 
than  before,  it  was  much  healthier.  But  the  dwell 
ings  were  inhabited  by  the  better-class  work 
men  and  artisans.  The  slum  people  had  simply 


FRYING-PAN   ALLEY  AND  A  GLIMPSE  OF    INFERNO        6l 

drifted   on  to  crowd   other  slums  or  to  form   new 
slums. 

"  An'  now,"  said  the  sweated  one,  the  'earty 
man  who  worked  so  fast  as  to  dazzle  one's  eyes, 
"  I'll  show  you  one  of  London's  lungs.  This  is 


A   SIGHT    I    NEVER    WISH   TO   SEE   AGAIN." 


Spitalfields   Garden."     And  he   mouthed  the  word 
'  garden  '  with  scorn. 

The  shadow  of  Christ's  Church  falls  across  Spit 
alfields  Garden,  and  in  the  shadow  of  Christ's 
Church,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  saw  a 
sight  I  never  wish  to  see  again.  There  are  no 
flowers  in  this  garden,  which  is  smaller  than  my 
own  rose  garden  at  home.  Grass  only  grows  here, 
and  it  is  surrounded  by  sharp-spiked  iron  fencing, 
as  are  all  the  parks  of  London  Town,  so  that  home- 


62  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  ABYSS 

less  men  and  women  may  not  come  in  at  night 
and  sleep  upon  it. 

As  we  entered  the  garden,  an  old  woman,  be 
tween  fifty  and  sixty,  passed  us,  striding  with 
sturdy  intention  if  somewhat  rickety  action,  with 
two  bulky  bundles,  covered  with  sacking,  slung 
fore  and  aft  upon  her.  She  was  a  woman  tramp, 
a  houseless  soul,  too  independent  to  drag  her  fail 
ing  carcass  through  the  workhouse  door.  Like 
the  snail,  she  carried  her  home  with  her.  In  the 
two  sacking-covered  bundles  were  her  household 
goods,  her  wardrobe,  linen,  and  dear  feminine  pos 
sessions. 

We  went  up  the  narrow  gravelled  walk.  On  the 
benches  on  either  side  was  arrayed  a  mass  of  miser 
able  and  distorted  humanity,  the  sight  of  which  would 
have  impelled  Dore  to  more  diabolical  flights  of 
fancy  than  he  ever  succeeded  in  achieving.  It  was 
a  welter  of  rags  and  filth,  of  all  manner  of  loathsome 
skin  diseases,  open  sores,  bruises,  grossness,  inde 
cency,  leering  monstrosities,  and  bestial  faces.  A 
chill,  raw  wind  was  blowing,  and  these  creatures 
huddled  there  in  their  rags,  sleeping  for  the  most 
part,  or  trying  to  sleep.  Here  were  a  dozen  women, 
ranging  in  age  from  twenty  years  to  seventy.  Next 
a  babe,  possibly  of  nine  months,  lying  asleep,  flat  on 
the  hard  bench,  with  neither  pillow  nor  covering, 
nor  with  any  one  looking  after  it.  Next,  half  a 


FRYING-PAN   ALLEY   AND   A   GLIMPSE   OF   INFERNO     63 

dozen  men,  sleeping  bolt  upright  or  leaning  against 
one  another  in  their  sleep.  In  one  place  a  family 
group,  a  child  asleep  in  its  sleeping  mother's  arms, 
and  the  husband  (or  male  mate)  clumsily  mending 
a  dilapidated  shoe.  On  another  bench  a  woman 
trimming  the  frayed  strips  of  her,  rags  with  a  knife, 


'A  LUNG  OF  LONDON. 


and  another  woman,  with  thread  and  needle,  sew 
ing  up  rents.  Adjoining,  a  man  holding  a  sleeping 
woman  in  his  arms.  Farther  on,  a  man,  his  cloth 
ing  caked  with  gutter  mud,  asleep  with  head  in  the 
lap  of  a  woman,  not  more  than  twenty-five  years  old, 
and  also  asleep. 


64          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

It  was  this  sleeping  that  puzzled  me.  Why  were 
nine  out  of  ten  of  them  asleep  or  trying  to  sleep  ? 
But  it  was  not  till  afterward  that  I  learned.  It  is  a 
law  of  the  powers  that  be  that  the  homeless  shall  not 
sleep  by  night.  On  the  pavement,  by  the  portico  of 
Christ's  Church,  where  the  stone  pillars  rise  toward 
the  sky  in  a  stately  row,  were  whole  rows  of  men 
lying  asleep  or  drowsing,  and  all  too  deep  sunk 
in  torpor  to  rouse  or  be  made  curious  by  our 
intrusion. 

"  A  lung  of  London,"  I  said  ;  "  nay,  an  abscess,  a 
great  putrescent  sore." 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?  "  demanded  the 
burning  young  socialist,  his  delicate  face  white  with 
sickness  of  soul  and  stomach  sickness. 

"  Those  women  there,"  said  our  guide,  "  will  sell 
themselves  for  thru'pence,  or  tu'pence,  or  a  loaf  of 
stale  bread." 

He  said  it  with  a  cheerful  sneer. 

But  what  more  he  might  have  said  I  do  not 
know,  for  the  sick  man  cried,  "  For  heaven's  sake, 
let  us  get  out  of  this." 


CHAPTER   VII 

A    WINNER    OF    THE    VICTORIA    CROSS 

From  out  of  the  populous  city  men  groan,  and  the  soul  of  the 
wounded  crieth  out.  TQB 

I  HAVE  found  that  it  is  not  easy  to  get  into  the 
casual  ward  of  the  workhouse.  I  have  made  two 
attempts  now,  and  I  shall  shortly  make  a  third. 
The  first  time  I  started  out  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  with  four  shillings  in  my  pocket.  Herein 
I  committed  two  errors.  In  the  first  place,  the 
applicant  for  admission  to  the  casual  ward  must 
be  destitute,  and  as  he  is  subjected  to  a  rigorous 
search,  he  must  really  be  destitute ;  and  four- 
pence,  much  less  four  shillings,  is  sufficient  afflu 
ence  to  disqualify  him.  In  the  second  place,  I 
made  the  mistake  of  tardiness.  Seven  o'clock  in 
the  evening  is  too  late  in  the  day  for  a  pauper  to 
get  a  pauper's  bed. 

For  the  benefit  of  gently  nurtured  and  innocent 

folk,  let  me  explain  what  a  casual  ward  is.     It  is  a 

building    where    the    homeless,    bedless,    penniless 

man,  if    he  be  lucky,  may  casually  rest  his  weary 

F  65 


66 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


bones,  and  then  work  like  a  navvy  next  day  to  pay 
for  it. 

My  second  attempt  to  break  into  the  casual  ward 
began  more  auspiciously.  I  started  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  accompanied  by  the  burning  young 
socialist  and  another  friend,  and  all  I  had  in  my 


THE  LINE  WAITING  BEFORE  WHITECHAPEL  WORKHOUSE. 

pocket  was  thru'pence.  They  piloted  me  to  the 
Whitechapel  Workhouse,  at  which  I  peered  from 
around  a  friendly  corner.  It  was  a  few  minutes 
past  five  in  the  afternoon,  but  already  a  long  and 
melancholy  line  was  formed,  which  strung  out 
around  the  corner  of  the  building-  and  out  of  sio-ht. 

e?  C5 

It   was    a    most  woful   picture,  men  and  women 


A  WINNER   OF   THE   VICTORIA  CROSS  6/ 

waiting  in  the  cold  gray  end  of  the  day  for  a 
pauper's  shelter  from  the  night,  and  I  confess  it 
almost  unnerved  me.  Like  the  boy  before  the  den 
tist's  door,  I  suddenly  discovered  a  multitude  of 
reasons  for  being  elsewhere.  Some  hints  of  the 
struggle  going  on  within  must  have  shown  in  my 
face,  for  one  of  my  companions  said,  "  Don't  funk ; 
you  can  do  it." 

Of  course  I  could  do  it,  but  I  became  aware  that 
even  thru'pence  in  my  pocket  was  too  lordly  a 
treasure  for  such  a  throng ;  and,  in  order  that  all  in 
vidious  distinctions  might  be  removed,  I  emptied 
out  the  coppers.  Then  I  bade  good-by  to  my 
friends,  and  with  my  heart  going  pit-a-pat,  slouched 
down  the  street  and  took  my  place  at  the  end  of  the 
line.  Woful  it  looked,  this  line  of  poor  folk  totter 
ing  on  the  steep  pitch  to  death ;  how  woful  it  was 
I  did  not  dream. 

Next  to  me  stood  a  short,  stout  man.  Hale  and 
hearty,  though  aged,  strong-featured,  with  the  tough 
and  leathery  skin  produced  by  long  years  of  sun- 
beat  and  weatherbeat,  his  was  the  unmistakable 
sea  face  and  eyes ;  and  at  once  there  came  to  me  a 
bit  of  Kipling's  "  Galley  Slave  " :  - 

"  By  the  brand  upon  my  shoulder,  by  the  gall  of  clinging  steel ; 
By  the  welt  the  whips  have  left  me,  by  the  scars  that  never  heal ; 
By  eyes  grown  old  with  staring  through  the  sun-wash  on  the  brine, 
I  am  paid  in  full  for  service.  ..." 


68  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

How  correct  I  was  in  my  surmise,  and  how  pecu 
liarly  appropriate  the  verse  was,  you  shall  learn. 

"  I  won't  stand  it  much  longer,  I  won't,"  he  was 
complaining  to  the  man  on  the  other  side  of  him. 
"  I'll  smash  a  windy,  a  big  'un,  an'  get  run  in  for 
fourteen  days.  Then  I'll  have  a  good  place  to  sleep, 
never  fear,  an'  better  grub  than  you  get  here. 
Though  I'd  miss  my  bit  of  baccy  "  —  this  as  an  after 
thought,  and  said  regretfully  and  resignedly. 

"I've  been  out  two  nights,  now,"  he  went  on; 
"  wet  to  the  skin  night  before  last,  an'  I  can't  stand 
it  much  longer.  I'm  crettin'  old,  an'  some  mornin' 

O  O 

they'll  pick  me  up  dead." 

He  whirled  with  fierce  passion  on  me :  "  Don't 
you  ever  let  yourself  grow  old,  lad.  Die  when 
you're  young,  or  you'll  come  to  this.  I'm  tellin' 
you  sure.  Seven  an'  eighty  years  am  I,  an'  served 
my  country  like  a  man.  Three  good  conduct 
stripes  and  the  Victoria  Cross,  an'  this  is  what  I 
get  for  it.  I  wish  I  was  dead,  I  wish  I  was  dead. 
Can't  come  any  too  quick  for  me,  I  tell  you." 

The  moisture  rushed  into  his  eyes,  but,  before 
the  other  man  could  comfort  him,  he  began  to  hum 
a  lilting  sea  song  as  though  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  heartbreak  in  the  world. 

Given  encouragement,  this  is  the  story  he  told 
while  waiting  in  line  at  the  workhouse  after  two 
nights  of  exposure  in  the  streets. 


A   WINNER   OF   THE   VICTORIA   CROSS  69 

As  a  boy  he  had  enlisted  in  the  British  navy, 
and  for  two  score  years  and  more  served  faithfully 
and  well.  Names,  dates,  commanders,  ports,  ships, 
engagements,  and  battles,  rolled  from  his  lips  in  a 
steady  stream,  but  it  is  beyond  me  to  remember 
them  all,  for  it  is  not  quite  in  keeping  to  take  notes 
at  the  poorhouse  door.  He  had  been  through  the 
'  First  War  in  China,'  as  he  termed  it ;  had  enlisted 
in  the  East  India  Company  and  served  ten  years  in 
India ;  was  back  in  India  again,  in  the  English 
navy,  at  the  time  of  the  Mutiny;  had  served  in  the 
Burmese  War  and  in  the  Crimea  ;  and  all  this  in 
addition  to  having  fought  and  toiled  for  the  English 
flag  pretty  well  over  the  rest  of  the  globe. 

Then  the  thing  happened.  A  little  thing,  if  it 
could  only  be  traced  back  to  first  causes:  perhaps 
the  lieutenant's  breakfast  had  not  agreed  with  him ; 
or  he  had  been  up  late  the  night  before  ;  or  his 
debts  were  pressing;  or  the  commander  had  spoken 
brusquely  to  him.  The  point  is,  that  on  this 
particular  day  the  lieutenant  was  irritable.  The 
sailor,  with  others,  was  '  setting  up  '  the  fore  rigging. 

Now,  mark  you,  the  sailor  had  been  over  forty 
years  in  the  navy,  had  three  good  conduct  stripes, 
and  possessed  the  Victoria  Cross  for  distinguished 
service  in  battle;  so  he  could  not  have  bee-;  such  an 
altogether  bad  sort  of  a  sailorman.  The  lieutenant 
was  irritable ;  the  lieutenant  called  him  a  name  — 


70          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

well,  not  a  nice  sort  of  name.  It  referred  to  his 
mother.  When  I  was  a  boy  it  was  our  boys'  code 
to  fight  like  little  demons  should  such  an  insult  be 
given  our  mothers.;  and  many  men  have  died  in  my 
part  of  the  world  for  calling  other  men  this  name. 

However,  the  lieutenant  called  the  sailor  this 
name.  At  that  moment  it  chanced  the  sailor  had 
an  iron  lever  or  bar  in  his  hands.  He  promptly 
struck  the  lieutenant  over  the  head  with  it,  knock 
ing  him  out  of  the  rigging  and  overboard. 

And  then,  in  the  man's  own  words :  "  I  saw  what 
I  had  done.  I  knew  the  Regulations,  and  I  said 
to  myself,  'It's  all  up  with  you,  Jack,  my  boy;  so 
here  goes.'  An'  I  jumped  over  after  him,  my  mind 
made  up  to  drown  us  both.  An'  I'd  ha'  done  it, 
too,  only  the  pinnace  from  the  flagship  was  just 
comin'  alongside.  Up  we  came  to  the  top,  me 
a  hold  of  him  an'  punchin'  him.  This  was  what 
settled  for  me.  If  I  hadn't  ben  strikin'  him,  I  could 
have  claimed  that,  seem'  what  I  had  done,  I  jumped 
over  to  save  him." 

Then  came  the  court-martial,  or  whatever  name 
a  sea  trial  goes  by.  He  recited  his  sentence,  word 
for  word,  as  though  memorized  and  £one  over  in 

O  O 

bitterness  many  times.  And  here  it  is,  for  the 
sake  of  discipline  and  respect  to  officers  not  always 
gentlemen,  the  punishment  of  a  man  who  was 
guilty  of  manhood.  To  be  reduced  to  the  rank  of 


A   WINNER   OF   THE   VICTORIA  CROSS  71 

ordinary  seaman ;  to  be  debarred  all  prize  money 
due  him ;  to  forfeit  all  rights  to  pension ;  to  resign 
the  Victoria  Cross ;  to  be  discharged  from  the  navy 
with  a  good  character  (this  being  his  first  offence) ; 
to  receive  fifty  lashes ;  and  to  serve  two  years  in 
prison. 

"  I  wish  I  had  drowned  that  day,  I  wish  to  God 
I  had,"  he  concluded,  as  the  line  moved  up  and  we 
passed  around  the  corner. 

At  last  the  door  came  in  siofht,  through  which  the 

O  O 

paupers  were  being  admitted  in  bunches.  And  here 
I  learned  a  surprising  thing :  this  being  Wednes 
day,  none  of  us  would  be  released  till  Friday  morn 
ing.  Furthermore,  and  oh,  you  tobacco  users,  take 
heed :  we  would  not  be  permitted  to  take  in  any 
tobacco.  This  we  would  have  to  surrender  as  we 
entered.  Sometimes,  I  was  told,  it  \vas  returned 
on  leaving,  and  sometimes  it  was  destroyed. 

The  old  man-of-war's  man  gave  me  a  lesson. 
Opening  his  pouch,  he  emptied  the  tobacco  (a 
pitiful  quantity)  into  a  piece  of  paper.  This, 
snugly  and  flatly  wrapped,  went  down  his  sock 
inside  his  shoe.  Do\vn  went  my  piece  of  tobacco 
inside  my  sock,  for  forty  hours  without  tobacco  is 
a  hardship  all  tobacco  users  will  understand. 

Again  and  again  the  line  moved  up,  and  we 
were  slowly  but  surely  approaching  the  wicket. 
At  the  moment  we  happened  to  be  standing  on  an 


72  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

iron  grating,  and  a  man  appearing  underneath,  the 
old  sailor  called  down  to  him  :  — 

"  How  many  more  do  they  want  ?  " 

"  Twenty-four,"  came  the  answer. 

We  looked  ahead  anxiously  and  counted.  Thirty- 
four  were  ahead  of  us.  Disappointment  and  con- 


Poi'I.AR    WOKKHOUSK. 


sternation  dawned  upon  the  faces  about  me.  It  is 
not  a  nice  thing,  hungry  and  penniless,  to  face  a 
sleepless  night  in  the  streets.  But  we  hoped 
against  hope,  till,  when  ten  stood  outside  the 
wicket,  the  porter  turned  us  away. 

"  Full  up,"   was  what  he  said,  as  he  banged  the 
door. 


A   WINNER   OF   THE   VICTORIA   CROSS  73 

Like  a  flash,  for  all  his  eighty-seven  years,  the 
old  sailor  was  speeding  away  on  the  desperate 
chance  of  finding  shelter  elsewhere.  I  stood  and 
debated  with  two  other  men,  wise  in  the  knowledge 
of  casual  wards,  as  to  where  we  should  go.  They 
decided  on  the  Poplar  Workhouse,  three  miles 
away,  and  we  started  off. 

As  we  rounded  the  corner,  one  of  them  said,  "  I 
could  a'  got  in  'ere  to-day.  I  come  by  at  one  o'clock, 
an'  the  line  was  beginnin'  to  form  then — pets, 
that's  what  they  are.  They  let  'm  in,  the  same 
ones,  night  upon  night." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

It  is  not  to  die,  nor  even  to  die  of  hunger,  that  makes  a  man 
wretched.  Many  men  have  died  ;  all  men  must  die.  But  it  is  to  live 
miserable,  we  know  not  why  ;  to  work  sore,  and  yet  gain  nothing ;  to  be. 
heart-worn,  weary,  yet  isolated,  unrelated,  girt  in  with  a  cold,  universal 
Laissez-faire.  —  CARLYLE. 

THE  Carter,  with  his  clean-cut  face,  chin  beard, 
and  shaved  upper  lip,  I  should  have  taken  in  the 
United  States  for  anything  from  a  master  workman 
to  a  well-to-do  farmer.  The  Carpenter  —  well,  I 
should  have  taken  him  for  a  carpenter.  He  looked 
it,  lean  and  wiry,  with  shrewd,  observant  eyes,  and 
hands  that  had  grown  twisted  to  the  handles  of 
tools  through  forty-seven  years'  work  at  the  trade. 
The  chief  difficulty  with  these  men  was  that  they 
were  old,  and  that  their  children,  instead  of  growing 
up  to  take  care  of  them,  had  died.  Their  years  had 
told  on  them,  and  they  had  been  forced  out  of  the 
whirl  of  industry  by  the  younger  and  stronger  com 
petitors  who  had  taken  their  places. 

These  two  men,  turned  away  from  the  casual 
ward  of  Whitechapel  Workhouse,  were  bound  with 
me  for  Poplar  Workhouse.  Not  much  of  a  show, 

74 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER 


75 


they  thought,  but  to  chance  it  was  all  that  remained 
to  us.  It  was  Poplar,  or  the  streets  and  night. 
Both  men  were  anxious  for  a  bed,  for  they  were 
'  about  gone,'  as  they  phrased  it.  The  Carter, 
fifty-eight  years  of  age,  had  spent,  the  last  three 


CASUAL  WARD  OF  WHITECHAPEL  WORKHOUSE. 


nights  without  shelter  or  sleep,  while  the  Carpenter, 
sixty-five  years  of  age,  had  been  out  five  nights. 

But,  O  dear,  soft  people,  full  of  meat  and  blood, 
with  white  beds  and  airy  rooms  waiting  you  each 
night,  how  can  I  make  you  know  what  it  is  to  suffer 
as  you  would  suffer  if  you  spent  a  weary  night  on 


76          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

London's  streets  ?  Believe  me,  you  would  think  a 
thousand  centuries  had  come  and  gone  before  the 
east  paled  into  dawn ;  you  would  shiver  till  you 
were  ready  to  cry  aloud  with  the  pain  of  each  ach 
ing  muscle ;  and  you  would  marvel  that  you  could 
endure  so  much  and  live.  Should  you  rest  upon  a 
bench,  and  your  tired  eyes  close,  depend  upon  it  the 
policeman  would  rouse  you  and  gruffly  order  you  to 
*  move  on.'  You  may  rest  upon  the  bench,  and 
benches  are  few  and  far  between ;  but  if  rest  means 
sleep,  on  you  must  go,  dragging  your  tired  body 
through  the  endless  streets.  Should  you,  in  des 
perate  slyness,  seek  some  forlorn  alley  or  dark  pas 
sageway  and  lie  down,  the  omnipresent  policeman 
will  rout  you  out  just  the  same.  It  is  his  business 
to  rout  you  out.  It  is  a  law  of  the  powers  that  be 
that  you  shall  be  routed  out. 

But  when  the  dawn  came,  the  nightmare  over, 
you  would  hale  you  home  to  refresh  yourself,  and 
until  you  died  you  would  tell  the  story  of  your  ad 
venture  to  groups  of  admiring  friends.  It  would 
grow  into  a  mighty  story.  Your  little  eight-hour 
night  would  become  an  Odyssey  and  you  a  Homer. 

Not  so  with  these  homeless  ones  who  walked  to 
Poplar  Workhouse  with  me.  And  there  are  thirty- 
five  thousand  of  them,  men  and  women,  in  London 
Town  this  night.  Please  don't  remember  it  as  you 
go  to  bed;  if  you  are  as  soft  as  you  ought  to  be, 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER       77 

you  may  not  rest  so  well  as  usual.  But  for  old 
men  of  sixty,  seventy,  and  eighty,  ill-fed,  with 
neither  meat  nor  blood,  to  greet  the  dawn  unre- 
freshed,  and  to  stagger  through  the  day  in  mad 
search  for  crusts,  with  relentless  night  rushing  down 
upon  them  again,  and  to  do  this  five  nights  and 
days  —  O  dear,  soft  people,  full  of  meat  and  blood, 
how  can  you  ever  understand  ? 

I  walked  up  Mile  End  Road  between  the  Carter 
and  the  Carpenter.     Mile  End  Road  is  a  wide  thor 
oughfare,  cutting  the   heart   of    East   London,  and 
there  were  tens  of  thousands  of  people  abroad  on 
it.      I  tell  you  this  so  that  you  may  fully  appreciate 
what  I  shall  describe  in  the  next  paragraph.     As  I 
say,  we  walked   along,  and  when  they  grew  bitter 
and  cursed  the  land,  I  cursed  with  them,  cursed  as 
an  American  waif  would  curse,  stranded  in  a  strange 
and  terrible  land.     And,  as   I  tried  to  lead  them  to 
believe,  and  succeeded  in  making  them  believe,  they 
took  me  for  a  'seafaring  man,'  who  had  spent  his 
money  in  riotous  living,  lost  his  clothes  (no  unusual 
occurrence    with    seafaring    men   ashore),  and    was 
temporarily  broke  while  looking  for  a  ship.      This 
accounted  for   my   ignorance  of    English    ways    in 
general   and    casual    wards    in    particular,   and    my 
curiosity  concerning  the  same. 

The   Carter   was   hard  put    to   keep  the  pace  at 
which  we  walked   (he  told  me   that  he   had  eaten 


78  THE   PEOPLE    OF   THE    ABYSS 

nothing  that  day),  but  the  Carpenter,  lean  and 
hungry,  his  gray  and  ragged  overcoat  flapping 
mournfully  in  the  breeze,  swung  on  in  a  long  and 
tireless  stride  which  reminded  me  strongly  of  the 
plains  coyote.  Both  kept  their  eyes  upon  the  pave 
ment  as  they  walked  and  talked,  and  every  now  and 
then  one  or  the  other  would  stoop  and  pick  some 
thing  up,  never  missing  the  stride  the  while.  I 
thought  it  was  cigar  and  cigarette  stumps  they 
were  collecting,  and  for  some  time  took  no  notice. 
Then  I  did  notice. 

From  the  slimy  sidewalk,  they  were  picking  iip 
bits  of  orange  peel,  apple  skin,  and  grape  stems, 
and  they  ivere  eating  them.  The  pits  of  green  gage 
plums  they  cracked  between  their  teeth  for  the  kernels 
inside.  They  picked  up  stray  crumbs  of  bread  the 
size  of  peas,  apple  cores  so  black  and  dirty  one 
iv on  Id  not  take  them  to  be  apple  cores,  and  t/iese 
things  these  two  men  took  into  their  mouths,  and 
chewed  them,  and  swallowed  them ;  and  tJris,  between 
six  and  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  August  20, 
year  of  our  Lord  1902,  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
est,  wealthiest,  and  most  powerful  empire  t/ie  world 
has  ever  seen. 

These  two  men  talked.  They  were  not  fools. 
They  were  merely  old.  And,  naturally,  their  guts 
a-reek  with  pavement  offal,  they  talked  of  bloody 
revolution.  They  talked  as  anarchists,  fanatics, 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER      79 

and  madmen  would  talk.  And  who  shall  blame 
them?  In  spite  of  my  three  good  meals  that 
day,  and  the  snug  bed  I  could  occupy  if  I  wished, 
and  my  social  philosophy,  and  my  evolutionary 
belief  in  the  slow  development  and  metamorphosis 
of  things  —  in  spite  of  all  this,  I  say,  I  felt  im 
pelled  to  talk  rot  with  them  or  hold  my  tongue. 
Poor  fools !  Not  of  their  sort  are  revolutions  bred. 
And  when  they  are  dead  and  dust,  which  will  be 
shortly,  other  fools  will  talk  bloody  revolution  as 
they  gather  offal  from  the  spittle-drenched  side 
walk  along  Mile  End  Road  to  Poplar  Workhouse. 

Being  a  foreigner,  and  a  young  man,  the  Carter 
and  the  Carpenter  explained  things  to  me  and 
advised  me.  Their  advice,  by  the  way,  was  brief 
and  to  the  point ;  it  was  to  get  out  of  the  coun 
try.  "  As  fast  as  God'll  let  me,"  I  assured  them ; 
"  I'll  hit  only  the  high  places,  till  you  won't  be 
able  to  see  my  trail  for  smoke."  They  felt  the 
force  of  my  figures,  rather  than  understood  them, 
and  they  nodded  their  heads  approvingly. 

"  Actually'  make  a  man  a  criminal  against  'is 
will,"  said  the  Carpenter.  "  'Ere  I  am,  old,  younger 
men  takin'  my  place,  my  clothes  gettin'  shabbier 
an'  shabbier,  an'  makin'  it  'arder  every  day  to  get 
a  job.  I  go  to  the  casual  ward  for  a  bed.  Must 
be  there  by  two  or  three  in  the  afternoon  or  I 
won't  get  in.  You  saw  what  happened  to-day. 


80          THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

What  chance  does  that  give  me  to  look  for  work  ? 
S'pose  I  do  get  into  the  casual  ward  ?  Keep  me 
in  all  day  to-morrow,  let  me  out  mornin'  o'  next 
day.  What  then  ?  The  law  sez  I  can't  get  in 
another  casual  ward  that  night  less'n  ten  miles 
distant.  Have  to  hurry  an'  walk  to  be  there  in 
time  that  day.  WThat  chance  does  that  give  me  to 
look  for  a  job  ?  S'pose  I  don't  walk.  S'pose  I  look 
for  a  job  ?  In  no  time  there's  night  come,  an'  no 
bed.  No  sleep  all  night,  nothin'  to  eat,  what  shape 
am  I  in  in  the  mornin'  to  look  for  work  ?  Got  to 
make  up  my  sleep  in  the  park  somehow  "  (the  vision 
of  Christ's  Church,  Spitalfields,  was  strong  on  me) 
"  an'  get  something  to  eat.  An'  there  I  am  !  Old, 
down,  an'  no  chance  to  get  up." 

"  Used  to  be  a  toll-gate  'ere,"  said  the  Carter. 
"  Many's  the  time  I've  paid  my  toll  'ere  in  my 
cartin'  days." 

"  I've  'ad  three  'a'penny  rolls  in  two  days,"  the 
Carpenter  announced,  after  a  long  pause  in  the 
conversation. 

"  Two  of  them  I  ate  yesterday,  an'  the  third 
to-day,"  he  concluded,  after  another  long  pause. 

"  I  ain't  'ad  anything  to-day,"  said  the  Carter. 
"  An'  I'm  fagged  out.  My  legs  is  hurtin'  me 
something  fearful." 

"  The  roll  you  get  in  the  '  spike '  is  that  'ard  you 
can't  eat  it  nicely  with  less'n  a  pint  of  water,"  said 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER      8 1 

the  Carpenter,  for  my  benefit.  And,  on  asking 
him  what  the  '  spike '  was,  he  answered,  "  The-  cas 
ual  wrard.  It's  a  cant  word,  you  know." 

But  what  surprised  me  was  that  he  should  have 
the  word  '  cant '  in  his  vocabulary,  a  vocabulary 
that  I  found  was  no  mean  one  before  we  parted. 

I  asked  them  what  I  might  expect  in  the  way 
of  treatment,  if  we  succeeded  in  getting  into  the 
Poplar  Workhouse,  and  between  them  I  was  sup 
plied  with  much  information.  Having  taken  a  cold 
bath  on  entering,  I  would  be  given  for  supper  six 
ounces  of  bread  and  '  three  parts  of  skilly.' 
'  Three  parts '  means  three-quarters  of  a  pint,  and 
'  skilly  '  is  a  fluid  concoction  of  three  quarts  of 
oatmeal  stirred  into  three  buckets  and  a  half  of 
hot  water. 

"  Milk  and  sugar,  I  suppose,  and  a  silver  spoon?  " 
I  queried. 

"  No  fear.  Salt's  what  you'll  get,  an'  I've  seen 
some  places  where  you'd  not  get  any  spoon.  'Old 
'er  up  an'  let  'er  run  clown,  that's  'ow  they  do  it." 

"  You  do  get  good  skilly  at  'Ackney,"  said  the 
Carter. 

"  Oh,  wonderful  skilly,  that,"  praised  the  Carpen 
ter,  and  each  looked  eloquently  at  the  other. 

"  Flour  an'  water  at  St.  George's  in  the  East," 
said  the  Carter. 

The  Carpenter  nodded.     He  had  tried  them  all. 


82  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE  ABYSS 

"  Then  what  ?  "  I  demanded. 

And  I  was  informed  that  I  was  sent  directly  to 
bed.  "  Call  you  at  half  after  five  in  the  mornin',  an' 
you  get  up  an'  take  a  'sluice'  —  if  there's  any  soap. 
Then  breakfast,  same  as  supper,  three  parts  o'  skilly 
an'  a  six-ounce  loaf." 

"  'Tisn't  always  six  ounces,"  corrected  the  Carter. 

"  'Tisn't,  no ;  an'  often  that  sour  you  can  'arclly 
eat  it.  When  first  I  started  I  couldn't  eat  the 
skilly  nor  the  bread,  but  now  I  can  eat  my  own  an' 
another  man's  portion." 

"  I  could  eat  three  other  men's  portions,"  said  the 
Carter.  "  I  'aven't  'ad  a  bit  this  blessed  day." 

"  Then  what  ?  " 

"Then  you've  got  to  do  your  task,  pick  four 
pounds  of  oakum,  or  clean  an'  scrub,  or  break  ten 
to  eleven  hundredweight  o'  stones.  I  don't  'ave  to 
break  stones ;  I'm  past  sixty,  you  see.  They'll 
make  you  do  it,  though.  You're  young  an'  strong." 

"  What  I  don't  like,"  grumbled  the  Carter,  "  is  to 
be  locked  up  in  a  cell  to  pick  oakum.  It's  too 
much  like  prison." 

"  But  suppose,  after  you've  had  your  night's 
sleep,  you  refuse  to  pick  oakum,  or  break  stones,  or 
do  any  work  at  all  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No  fear  you'll  refuse  the  second  time ;  they'll 
run  you  in,"  answered  the  Carpenter.  "  Wouldn't 
advise  you  to  try  it  on,  my  lad." 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER       83 

"  Then  comes  dinner,"  he  went  on.  "  Eight  ounces 
of  bread,  one  and  a  arf  ounces  of  cheese,  an'  cold 
water.  Then  you  finish  your  task  an'  'ave  supper, 
same  as  before,  three  parts  o'  skilly  an'  six  ounces 
o'  bread.  Then  to  bed,  six  o'clock,  an'  next  mornin' 
you're  turned  loose,  provided  you've  finished  your 
task." 

We  had  long  since  left  Mile  End  Road,  and 
after  traversing  a  gloomy  maze  of  narrow,  winding 
streets,  we  came  to  Poplar  Workhouse.  On  a  low 
stone  wall  we  spread  our  handkerchiefs,  and  each  in 
his  handkerchief  put  all  his  worldly  possessions 
with  the  exception  of  the  '  bit  o'  baccy '  down  his 
sock.  And  then,  as  the  last  light  was  fading  from 
the  drab-colored  sky,  the  wind  blowing  cheerless 
and  cold,  we  stood,  with  our  pitiful  little  bundles  in 
our  hands,  a  forlorn  group  at  the  workhouse  door. 

Three  working  girls  came  along,  and  one  looked 
pityingly  at  me ;  as  she  passed  I  followed  her  with 
my  eyes,  and  she  still  looked  pityingly  back  at  me. 
The  old  men  she  did  not  notice.  Dear  Christ,  she 
pitied  me,  young  and  vigorous  and  strong,  but  she 
had  no  pity  for  the  two  old  men  who  stood  by  my 
side !  She  was  a  young  woman,  and  I  was  a  young 
man,  and  what  vague  sex  promptings  impelled  her 
to  pity  me  put  her  sentiment  on  the  lowest  plane. 
Pity  for  old  men  is  an  altruistic  feeling,  and  besides, 
the  workhouse  door  is  the  accustomed  place  for  old 


84  THE  PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

men.  So  she  showed  no  pity  for  them,  only  for  me, 
who  deserved  it  least  or  not  at  all.  Not  in  honor 
do  gray  hairs  go  down  to  the  grave  in  London 
Town. 

On  one  side  the  door  was  a  bell  handle,  on  the 
other  side  a  press  button. 

"  Ring  the  bell,"  said  the  Carter  to  me. 

And  just  as  I  ordinarily  would  at  anybody's  door, 
I  pulled  out  the  handle  and  rang  a  peal. 

"  Oh !  Oh ! "  they  cried  in  one  terrified  voice. 
"Not  so  ard!" 

I  let  go,  and  they  looked  reproachfully  at  me,  as 
though  I  had  imperilled  their  chance  for  a  bed  and 
three  parts  of  skilly.  Nobody  came.  Luckily,  it 
was  the  wrong  bell,  and  I  felt  better. 

"  Press  the  button,"  I  said  to  the  Carpenter. 

"  No,  no,  wait  a  bit,"  the  Carter  hurriedly  inter 
posed. 

From  all  of  which  I  drew  the  conclusion  that  a 
poorhouse  porter,  who  commonly  drawrs  a  yearly 
salary  of  from  thirty  to  forty  dollars,  is  a  very 
finicky  and  important  personage,  and  cannot  be 
treated  too  fastidiously  by  —  paupers. 

So  \ve  waited,  ten  times  a  decent  interval,  when 
the  Carter  stealthily  advanced  a  timid  forefinger  to 
the  button,  and  gave  it  the  faintest,  shortest  possi 
ble  push.  I  have  looked  at  waiting  men  where  life 
and  death  was  in  the  issue ;  but  anxious  suspense 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER       85 

showed  less  plainly  on  their  faces  than  it  showed  on 
the  faces  of  these  two  men  as  they  waited  for  the 
coming  of  the  porter. 

He  came.  He  barely  looked  at  us.  "  Full  up," 
he  said,  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Another  night  of  it,"  groaned  the  Carpenter. 
In  the  dim  light  the  Carter  looked  wan  and  gray. 

Indiscriminate  charity  is  vicious,  say  the  pro 
fessional  philanthropists.  Well,  I  resolved  to  be 
vicious. 

"  Come  on ;  get  your  knife  out  and  come  here," 
I  sai4  to  the  Carter,  drawing  him  into  a  dark  alley. 

He  glared  at  me  in  a  frightened  manner,  and 
tried  to  draw  back.  Possibly  he  took  me  for  a 
latter  day  Jack-the- Ripper,  with  a  penchant  for 
elderly  male  paupers.  Or  he  may  have  thought  I 
was  inveigling  him  into  the  commission  of  some 
desperate  crime.  Anyway,  he  was  frightened. 

It  will  be  remembered,  at  the  outset,  that  I  sewed 
a  pound  inside  my  stoker's  singlet  under  the  arm 
pit.  This  was  my  emergency  fund,  and  I  was  now 
called  upon  to  use  it  for  the  first  time. 

Not  until  I  had  gone  through  the  acts  of  a  con 
tortionist,  and  shown  the  round  coin  sewed  in,  did 
I  succeed  in  getting  the  Carter's  help.  Even  then 
his  hand  was  trembling  so  that  I  was  afraid  he 
would  cut  me  instead  of  the  stitches,  and  I  was 
forced  to  take  the  knife  away  and  do  it  myself. 


86  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

Out  rolled  the  gold  piece,  a  fortune  in  their  hungry 
eyes ;  and  away  we  stampeded  for  the  nearest  coffee 
house. 

Of  course  I  had  to  explain  to  them  that  I  was 
merely  an  investigator,  a  social  student,  seeking  to 
find  out  how  the  other  half  lived.  And  at  once 
they  shut  up  like  clams.  I  was  not  of  their  kind ; 
my  speech  had  changed,  the  tones  of  my  voice  were 
different,  in  short,  I  was  a  superior,  and  they  were 
superbly  class  conscious. 

"What  will  you  have?"  I  asked,  as  the  waiter 
came  for  the  order. 

"  Two  slices  an'  a  cup  of  tea,"  meekly  said  the 
Carter. 

"  Two  slices  an'  a  cup  of  tea,"  meekly  said  the 
Carpenter. 

Stop  a  moment,  and  consider  the  situation. 
Here  were  two  men,  invited  by  me  into  the  coffee 
house.  They  had  seen  my  gold  piece,  and  they 
could  understand  that  I  was  no  pauper.  One  had 
eaten  a  ha'penny  roll  that  day,  the  other  had  eaten 
nothing.  And  they  called  for  "  two  slices  an'  a 
cup  of  tea ! "  Each  man  had  given  a  tu'penny 
order.  '  Two  slices,'  by  the  way,  means  two  slices 
of  bread  and  butter. 

This  was  the  same  degraded  humility  that  had 
characterized  their  attitude  toward  the  poorhouse 
porter.  But  I  wouldn't  have  it.  Step  by  step  I 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER      8/ 

increased  their  orders,  —  eggs,  rashers  of  bacon, 
more  eggs,  more  bacon,  more  tea,  more  slices,  and 
so  forth,  —  they  denying  wistfully  all  the  while  that 
they  cared  for  anything  more,  and  devouring  it 
ravenously  as  fast  as  it  arrived. 

"  First  cup  o'  tea  I've  'ad  in  a  fortnight,"  said  the 
Carter. 

"  Wonderful  tea,  that,"  said  the  Carpenter. 

They  each  drank  two  pints  of  it,  and  I  assure 
you  that  it  was  slops.  It  resembled  tea  less  than 
lager  beer  resembles  champagne.  Nay,  it  was 
'water-bewitched,'  and  did  not  resemble  tea  at  all. 

It  was  curious,  after  the  first  shock,  to  notice  the 
effect  the  food  had  on  them.  At  first  they  were 
melancholy,  and  talked  of  the  divers  times  they  had 
contemplated  suicide.  The  Carter,  not  a  week 
before,  had  stood  on  the  bridge  and  looked  at 
the  water,  and  pondered  the  question.  Water,  the 
Carpenter  insisted  with  heat,  was  a  bad  route.  He, 
for  one,  he  knew,  would  struggle.  A  bullet  was 
'  'andier,'  but  how  under  the  sun  was  he  to  get 
hold  of  a  revolver?  That  was  the  rub. 

They  grew  more  cheerful  as  the  hot  'tea'  soaked 
in,  and  talked  more  about  themselves.  The  Carter 
had  buried  his  wife  and  children,  -with  the  excep 
tion  of  one  son,  who  grew  to  manhood  and  helped 
him  in  his  little  business.  Then  the  thing  hap 
pened.  The  son,  a  man  of  thirty-one,  died  of  the 


88  THE   PEOPLE  OF  THE   ABYSS 

smallpox.  No  sooner  was  this  over  than  the  father 
came  down  with  fever  and  went  to  the  hospital  for 
three  months.  Then  he  was  done  for.  He  came 
out  weak,  debilitated,  no  strong  young  son  to  stand 
by  him,  his  little  business  gone  glimmering,  and 
not  a  farthing.  The  thing  had  happened,  and  the 
game  was  up.  No  chance  for  an  old  man  to 
start  again.  Friends  all  poor  and  unable  to  he] p. 
He  had  tried  for  work  when  they  were  putting  up 
the  stands  for  the  first  Coronation  parade.  "  An' 
I  got  fair  sick  of  the  answer;  'No!  no !  no ! '  It 
rang  in  my  ears  at  night  when  I  tried  to  sleep, 
always  the  same,  '  No  !  no  !  no  ! ' !  Only  the  past 
week  he  had  answered  an  advertisement  in  Hack 
ney,  and  on  giving  his  age  was  told,  "  Oh,  too  old, 
too  old  by  far." 

The  Carpenter  had  been  born  in  the  army,  where 
his  father  had  served  twenty-two  years.  Likewise, 
his  two  brothers  had  gone  into  the  army ;  one, 
troop  sergeant-major  of  the  Seventh  Hussars,  dying 
in  India  after  the  Mutiny;  the  other,  after  nine 
years  under  Roberts  in  the  East,  had  been  lost  in 
Egypt.  The  Carpenter  had  not  gone  into  the 
army,  so  here  he  was,  still  on  the  planet. 

"  But  'ere,  give  me  your  'and,"  he  said,  ripping 
open  his  ragged  shirt.  "  I'm  fit  for  the  anatomist, 
that's  all.  I'm  wastin'  away,  sir,  actually  wastin' 
away  for  want  of  food.  Feel  my  ribs  an'  you'll  see." 


THE  CARTER  AND  THE  CARPENTER       89 

I  put  my  hand  under  his  shirt  and  felt.  The 
skin  was  stretched  like  parchment  over  the  bones, 
and  the  sensation  produced  was  for  all  the  world 
like  running  one's  hand  over  a  washboard. 

"  Seven  years  o'  bliss  I  'ad,"  he  said.  "  A  good 
missus  and  three  bonnie  lassies.  But  they  all  died. 
Scarlet  fever  took  the  <nrls  inside  a  fortnight." 

O  O 

"  After  this,  sir,"  said  the  Carter,  indicating  the 
spread,  and  desiring  to  turn  the  conversation  into 
more  cheerful  channels ;  "  after  this,  I  wouldn't 
be  able  to  eat  a  workhouse  breakfast  in  the 
morning." 

"  Nor  I,"  agreed  the  Carpenter,  and  they  fell  to 
discussing  belly  delights  and  the  fine  dishes  their 
respective  wives  had  cooked  in  the  old  days. 

"  I've  gone  three  days  and  never  broke  my  fast," 
said  the  Carter. 

"  And  I,  five,"  his  companion  added,  turning 
gloomy  with  the  memory  of  it.  "  Five  days  once, 
with  nothing  on  my  stomach  but  a  bit  of  orange 
peel,  an'  outraged  nature  wouldn't  stand  it,  sir,  an' 
I  near  died.  Sometimes,  walkin'  the  streets  at 
night,  I've  ben  that  desperate  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  win  the  horse  or  lose  the  saddle.  You 
know  \vhat  I  mean,  sir  —  to  commit  some  big 
robbery.  But  when  mornin'  come,  there  was  I, 
too  weak  from  'unger  an'  cold  to  'arm  a  mouse." 

As  their  poor  vitals  warmed    to    the    food,  they 


90  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  ABYSS 

began  to  expand  and  wax  boastful,  and  to  talk  pol 
itics.  I  can  only  say  that  they  talked  politics  as 
well  as  the  average  middle-class  man,  and  a  great 
deal  better  than  some  of  the  middle-class  men  I 
have  heard.  What  surprised  me  was  the  hold 
they  had  on  the  world,  its  geography  and  peoples, 
and  on  recent  and  contemporaneous  history.  As 
I  say,  they  were  not  fools,  these  two  men.  They 
were  merely  old,  and  their  children  had  undutifully 
failed  to  grow  up  and  give  them  a  place  by  the 
fire. 

One  last  incident,  as  I  bade  them  good-by  on 
the  corner,  happy  with  a  couple  of  shillings  in  their 
pockets  and  the  certain  prospect  of  a  bed  for  the 
night.  Lighting  a  cigarette,  I  was  about  to  throw 
away  the  burning  match  when  the  Carter  reached 
for  it.  I  proffered  him  the  box,  but  he  said, 
"  Never  mind,  won't  waste  it,  sir."  And  while  he 
lighted  the  cigarette  I  had  given  him,  the  Carpen 
ter  hurried  with  the  filling  of  his  pipe  in  order  to 
have  a  vo  at  the  same  match. 

O 

"  It's  wrong  to  wraste,"  said  he. 
"  Yes,"   I  said,  but   I  was  thinking  of  the  wash 
board  ribs  over  which   I  had  run  my  hand. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    SPIKE 

The  old  Spartans  had  a  wiser  method ;  and  went  out  and  hunted 
down  their  Helots,  and  speared  and  spitted  them,  when  they  grew  too 
numerous.  With  our  improved  fashions  of  hunting,  now  after  the  inven 
tion  of  firearms  and  standing  armies,  how  much  easier  were  such  a  hunt ! 
Perhaps  in  the  most  thickly  peopled  country,  some  three  days  annually 
might  suffice  to  shoot  all  the  able-bodied  paupers  that  had  accumulated 
within  the  year.  _  CARLYLE. 

<t 

FIRST  of  all,  I  must  beg  forgiveness  of  my  body 
for  the  vileness  through  which  I  have  dragged  it, 
and  forgiveness  of  my  stomach  for  the  vileness 
which  I  have  thrust  into  it.  I  have  been  to  the 
spike,  and  slept  in  the  spike,  and  eaten  in  the 
spike ;  also,  I  have  run  away  from  the  spike. 

After  my  two  unsuccessful  attempts  to  penetrate 
the  Whitechapel  casual  ward,  I  started  early,  and 
joined  the  desolate  line  before  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  They  did  not  '  let  in '  till  six,  but  at 
that  early  hour  I  was  number  20,  while  the  news 
had  gone  forth  that  only  twenty-two  were  to  be 
admitted.  By  four  o'clock  there  were  thirty-four 
in  line,  the  last  ten  hanging  on  in  the  slender 
hope  of  getting  in  by  some  kind  of  a  miracle. 
Many  more  came,  looked  at  the  line,  and  went 

91 


92  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

away,  wise  to  the  bitter  fact  that  the  spike  would 
be  '  full  up.' 

Conversation  was  slack  at  first,  standing  there, 
till  the  man  on  one  side  of  me  and  the  man  on  the 
other  side  of  me  discovered  that  they  had  been  in 
the  smallpox  hospital  at  the  same  time,  though  a 
full  house  of  sixteen  hundred  patients  had  pre 
vented  their  becoming  acquainted.  But  they  made 
up  for  it,  discussing  and  comparing  the  more  loath 
some  features  of  their  disease  in  the  most  cold 
blooded,  matter-of-fact  way.  I  learned  that  the 
average  mortality  was  one  in  six,  that  one  of  them 
had  been  in  three  months  and  the  other  three 
months  and  a  half,  and  that  they  had  been  '  rotten 
wi'  it.'  Whereat  my  flesh  began  to  creep  and  crawl, 
and  I  asked  them  how  long  they  had  been  out.  One 
had  been  out  two  weeks,  and  the  other  three  weeks. 
Their  faces  were  badly  pitted  (though  each  assured 
the  other  that  this  was  not  so),  and  further,  they 
showed  me  in  their  hands  and  under  the  nails  the 
smallpox  '  seeds '  still  working  out.  Nay,  one  of 
them  worked  a  seed  out  for  my  edification,  and 
pop  it  went,  right  out  of  his  flesh  into  the  air.  I 
tried  to  shrink  up  smaller  inside  my  clothes,  and 
I  registered  a  fervent  though  silent  hope  that  it  had 
not  popped  on  me. 

In  both  instances,  I  found  that  the  smallpox 
was  the  cause  of  their  being  '  on  the  doss,'  which 


THE   SPIKE  93 

means  on  the  tramp.  Both  had  been  working  when 
smitten  by  the  disease,  and  both  had  emerged  from 
the  hospital  '  broke,'  with  the  gloomy  task  before 
them  of  hunting  for  work.  So  far,  they  had  not 
found  any,  and  they  had  come  to  the  spike  for  a 
'  rest  up '  after  three  days  and  nights  on  the  street. 

It  seems  that  not  only  the  man  who  becomes 
old  is  punished  for  his  involuntary  misfortune,  but 
likewise  the  man  who  is  struck  by  disease  or 
accident.  Later  on,  I  talked  with  another  man,  — 
'  Ginger  '  we  called  him,  —  who  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  lyie  —  a  sure  indication  that  he  had  been  wait 
ing  since  one  o'clock.  A  year  before,  one  day,  while 
in  the  employ  of  a  fish  dealer,  he  was  carrying  a 
heavy  box  of  fish  which  was  too  much  for  him. 
Result:  'something  broke,'  and  there  was  the  box 
on  the  ground,  and  he  on  the  ground  beside  it. 

o  o 

At  the  first  hospital,  whither  he  was  immediately 
carried,  they  said  it  was  a  rupture,  reduced  the 
swelling,  gave  him  some  vaseline  to  rub  on  it,  kept 
him  four  hours,  and  told  him  to  get  along.  But  he 
was  not  on  the  streets  more  than  two  or  three 
hours  when  he  was  down  on  his  back  again.  This 
time  he  went  to  another  hospital  and  was  patched 
up.  But  the  point  is,  the  employer  did  nothing, 
positively  nothing,  for  the  man  injured  in  his  em 
ployment,  and  even  refused  him  '  a  light  job  now 
and  again,'  when  he  came  out.  As  far  as  Ginger 


94  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

is  concerned,  he  is  a  broken  man.  His  only  chance 
to  earn  a  living  was  by  heavy  work.  He  is  now 
incapable  of  performing  heavy  work,  and  from  now 
until  he  dies,  the  spike,  the  peg,  and  the  streets  are 
all  he  can  look  forward  to  in  the  way  of  food  and 
shelter.  The  thing  happened  —  that  is  all.  He  put 
his  back  under  too  great  a  load  of  fish,  and  his 
chance  for  happiness  in  life  was  crossed  off  the 
books. 

Several  men  in  the  line  had  been  to  the  United 
States,  and  they  were  wishing  that  they  had  re 
mained  there,  and  were  cursing  themselves  for  their 
folly  in  ever  having  left.  England  had  become  a 
prison  to  them,  a  prison  from  wrhich  there  \vas  no 
hope  of  escape.  It  was  impossible  for  them  to 
get  away.  They  could  neither  scrape  together  the 
passage  money,  nor  get  a  chance  to  \vork  their 
passage.  The  country  was  too  overrun  by  poor 
devils  on  that  '  lay.' 

I  was  on  the  seafaring-man- who-had-lost-his-clothes- 
and-money  tack,  and  they  all  condoled  with  me  and 
gave  me  much  sound  advice.  To  sum  it  up,  the 
advice  was  something  like  this :  To  keep  out  of  all 
places  like  the  spike.  There  \vas  nothing  good  in 
it  for  me.  To  head  for  the  coast  and  bend  every 
effort  to  get  away  on  a  ship.  To  go  to  work,  if 
possible,  and  scrape  together  a  pound  or  so,  with 
which  I  might  bribe  some  steward  or  underling  to 


THE   SPIKE  95 

give  me  chance  to  work  my  passage.  They  envied 
me  my  youth  and  strength,  which  would  sooner  or 
later  get  me  out  of  the  country.  These  they  no 
longe-r  possessed.  Age  and  English  hardship  had 
broken  them,  and  for  them  the  game  was  played 
and  up. 

There  was  one,  however,  who  was  still  young, 
and  who,  I  am  sure,  will  in  the  end  make  it  out. 
He  had  gone  to  the  United  States  as  a  young 
fellow,  and  in  fourteen  years'  residence  the  longest 
period  he  had  been  out  of  work  was  twelve  hours. 
He  had  saved  his  money,  grown  too  prosperous, 
and  returned  to  the  mother  country.  Now  he  was 
standing  in  line  at  the  spike. 

For  the  past  two  years,  he  told  me,  he  had  been 
working  as  a  cook.  His  hours  had  been  from  7  A.M. 
to  10.30  P.M.,  and  on  Saturday  to  12.30  P.M.  —  ninety- 
five  hours  per  week,  for  which  he  had  received 
twenty  shillings,  or  five  dollars. 

"  But  the  work  and  the  long  hours  was  killing 
me,"  he  said,  "and  I  had  to  chuck  the  job.  I  had  a 
little  money  saved,  but  I  spent  it  living  and  looking 
for  another  place." 

This  was  his  first  night  in  the  spike,  and  he  had 
come  in  only  to  get  rested.  As  soon  as  he  emerged 
he  intended  to  start  for  Bristol,  a  one-hundred-and- 
ten-mile  walk,  where  he  thought  he  would  eventually 
get  a  ship  for  the  States. 


96  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

But  the  men  in  the  line  were  not  all  of  this 
caliber.  Some  were  poor,  wretched  beasts,  inarticu 
late  and  callous,  but  for  all  of  that,  in  many  ways 
very  human.  I  remember  a  carter,  evidently  return 
ing  home  after  the  day's  work,  stopping  his  cart 
before  us  so  that  his  young  hopeful,  who  had  run  to 
meet  him,  could  climb  in.  But  the  cart  was  big, 
the  young  hopeful  little,  and  he  failed  in  his  several 
attempts  to  swarm  up.  Whereupon  one  of  the 
most  degraded-looking  men  stepped  out  of  the  line 
and  hoisted  him  in.  Now  the  virtue  and  the  joy  of 
this  act  lies  in  that  it  was  service  of  love,  not  hire. 
The  carter  was  poor,  and  the  man  knew  it;  and  the 
man  was  standing  in  the  spike  line,  and  the  carter 
knew  it;  and  the  man  had  done  the  little  act,  and 
the  carter  had  thanked  him,  even  as  you  and  I 
would  have  done  and  thanked. 

Another    beautiful   touch  was  that  displayed  bv 

i         j  j 

the  'Hopper'  and  his  '  ole  woman.'  He  had  been 
in  line  about  half  an  hour  when  the  '  ole  woman' 
(his  mate)  came  up  to  him.  She  was  fairly  clad, 
for  her  class,  with  a  weatherworn  bonnet  on  her 
gray  head  and  a  sacking  covered  bundle  in  her 
arms.  As  she  talked  to  him,  he  reached  forward, 
caught  the  one  stray  wisp  of  the  white  hair  that  was 
flying  wild,  deftly  twirled  it  between  his  fingers,  and 
tucked  it  back  properly  behind  her  ear.  From  all 
of  which  one  may  conclude  many  things.  He  cer- 


THE   SPIKE  97 

tainly  liked  her  well  enough  to  wish  her  to  be  neat 
and  tidy.  He  was  proud  of  her,  standing  there  in 
the  spike  line,  and  it  was  his  desire  that  she  should 
look  well  in  the  eyes  of  the  other  unfortunates  who 
stood  in  the  spike  line.  But  last  and  best,  and 
underlying  all  these  motives,  it  was  a  sturdy  affec 
tion  he  bore  her ;  for  man  is  not  prone  to  bother 
his  head  over  neatness  and  tidiness  in  a  woman  for 
whom  he  does  not  care,  nor  is  he  likely  to  be  proud 
of  such  a  woman. 

And  I  found  myself  questioning  *why  this  man 
and  Ms  mate,  hard  workers  I  knew  from  their  talk, 
should  have  to  seek  a  pauper  lodging.  He  had 
pride,  pride  in  his  old  woman  and  pride  in  himself. 
When  I  asked  him  what  he  thought  I,  a  greenhorn, 
might  expect  to  earn  at  '  hopping,'  he  sized  me  up, 
and  said  that  it  all  depended.  Plenty  of  people 
were  too  slow  to  pick  hops  and  made  a  failure  of  it. 
A  man,  to  succeed,  must  use  his  head  and  be  quick 
with  his  fingers,  must  be  exceeding  quick  with  his 
fingers.  Now  he  and  his  old  woman  could  do  very 
well  at  it,  working  the  one  bin  between  them  and 
not  going  to  sleep  over  it ;  but  then,  they  had  been 
at  it  for  years. 

"  I  'ad  a  mate  as  went  down  last  year,"  spoke  up 
a  man.  "  It  was  'is  fust  time,  but  'e  come  back  wi' 
two  poun'  ten  in  'is  pockit,  an'  'e  was  only  gone  a 
month." 


98 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 


"  There  you  are,"  said  the  Hopper,  a  wealth  of 
admiration  in  his  voice.  "  'E  was  quick.  'E  was 
jest  nat'rally  born  to  it,  'e  was." 


A  TYPICAL  LONDON  HOPPER  AND  HIS  MATE  "PADDING  THK  HOOF" 
IN  KENT. 


Two  pound  ten  —  twelve  dollars  and  a  half  —  for 
a  month's  work  when  one  is  'jest  nat'rally  born 
to  it'!  And  in  addition,  sleeping  out  without 
blankets  and  living  the  Lord  knows  how.  There 
are  moments  when  I  am  thankful  that  I  was  not 


THE   SPIKE  99 

c  jest  nat'rally  born '  a  genius  for  anything,  not  even 
hop-picking. 

In  the  matter  of  getting  an  outfit  for  '  the  hops,' 
the  Hopper  gave  me  some  sterling  advice,  to  which 
same  give  heed,  you  soft  and  tender  people,  in  case 
you  should  ever  be  stranded  in  London  Town. 

"  If  you  ain't  got  tins  an'  cookin'  things,  all  as 
you  can  get'll  be  bread  and  cheese.  No  bloody 
good  that!  You  must  'ave  'ot  tea,  an'  wegetables, 
an'  a  bit  o'  meat,  now  an'  again,  if  you're  goin'  to 
do  work  as  is  work.  Cawn't  do  it  on  cold  wittles. 
Tell  you  wot  you  do,  lad.  Run  around  in  the 
mornin'  an'  look  in  the  dust  pans.  You'll  find 
plenty  o'  tins  to  cook  in.  Fine  tins,  wonderful 
good  some  o'  them.  Me  an'  the  ole  woman  got 
ours  that  way."  (He  pointed  at  the  bundle  she 
held,  while  she  nodded  proudly,  beaming  on  me 
with  good  nature  and  consciousness  of  success 
and  prosperity.)  "  This  overcoat  is  as  good  as  a 
blanket,"  he  went  on,  advancing  the  skirt  of  it  that 
I  might  feel  its  thickness.  "  An'  'oo  knows,  I  may 
find  a  blanket  before  long." 

Again  the  old  woman  nodded  and  beamed,  this 
time  with  the  dead  certainty  that  he  would  find  a 
blanket  before  long. 

"  I  call  it  a  'oliday,  'oppin',"  he  concluded  raptur 
ously.  "  A  tidy  way  o'  gettin'  two  or  three  pounds 
together  an'  fixin'  up  for  winter.  The  only  thing  I 


100         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

don't  like"  —  and  here  was  the  rift  within  the  lute 
—  "  is  paddin'  the  'oof  down  there." 

It  was  plain  the  years  were  telling  on  this  ener 
getic  pair,  and  while  they  enjoyed  the  quick  work 
with  the  fingers,  'paddin'  the  'oof,'  which  is  walk 
ing,  was  beginning  to  bear  heavily  upon  them. 
And  I  looked  at  their  gray  hairs,  and  ahead  into 
the  future  ten  years,  and  wondered  how  it  would  be 
with  them. 

I  noticed  another  man  and  his  old  woman  join 
the  line,  both  of  them  past  fifty.  The  woman, 
because  she  was  a  woman,  was  admitted  into  the 
spike ;  but  he  was  too  late,  and,  separated  from  his 
mate,  was  turned  away  to  tramp  the  streets  all 
night. 

The  street  on  which  we  stood,  from  wall  to  wall, 
wras  barely  twenty  feet  wide.  The  sidewalks  were 
three  feet  wide.  It  was  a  residence  street.  At 
least  workmen  and  their  families  existed  in  some 
sort  of  fashion  in  the  houses  across  from  us.  And 
each  day  and  every  day,  from  one  in  the  afternoon 
till  six,  our  ragged  spike  line  is  the  principal  feature 
of  the  view  commanded  by  their  front  doors  and 
windows.  One  workman  sat  in  his  door  directly 
opposite  us,  taking  his  rest  and  a  breath  of  air  after 
the  toil  of  the  day.  His  wife  came  to  chat  with 
him.  The  doorway  was  too  small  for  two,  so  she 
stood  up.  Their  babes  sprawled  before  them.  And 


THE   SPIKE  101 

here  was  the  spike  line,  less  than  a  score  of  feet 
away  —  neither  privacy  for  the  workman,  nor  pri 
vacy  for  the  pauper.  About  our  feet  played  the 
children  of  the  neighborhood.  To  them  our  pres 
ence  was  nothing  unusual.  We  were  not  an  in 
trusion.  We  were  as  natural  and  ordinary  as  the 
brick  walls  and  stone  curbs  of  their  environment. 
They  had  been  born  to  the  sight  of  the  spike  line, 
and  all  their  brief  days  they  had  seen  it. 

At  six  o'clock  the  line  moved  up,  and  we  were 
admitted  in  groups  of  three.  Name,  age,  occupa 
tion,  place  of  birth,  condition  of  destitution,  and 
the  previous  night's  '  doss,'  were  taken  with  light 
ning-like  rapidity  by  the  superintendent;  and  as 
I  turned  I  was  startled  by  a  man's  thrusting  into 
my  hand  something  that  felt  like  a  brick,  and 
shouting  into  my  ear,  "  Any  knives,  matches,  or 
tobacco  ? "  "  No,  sir,"  I  lied,  as  lied  every  man 
who  entered.  As  I  passed  downstairs  to  the  cel 
lar,  I  looked  at  the  brick  in  my  hand,  and  saw  that 
by  doing  violence  to  the  language  it  might  be 
called  '  bread.'  By  its  weight  and  hardness  it 
certainly  must  have  been  unleavened. 

The  light  was  very  dim  down  in  the  cellar,  and 
before  I  knew  it  some  other  man  had  thrust  a 
pannikin  into  my  other  hand.  Then  I  stumbled 
on  to  a  still  darker  room,  where  were  benches  and 
tables  and  men.  The  place  smelled  vilely,  and 


102  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

the  sombre  gloom,  and  the  mumble  of  voices  from 
out  of  the  obscurity,  made  it  seem  more  like  some 
anteroom  to  the  infernal  regions. 

Most  of  the  men  were  suffering  from  tired  feet, 
and  they  prefaced  the  meal  by  removing  their 
shoes  and  unbinding  the  filthy  rags  with  which 
their  feet  were  wrapped.  This  added  to  the  gen 
eral  noisomeness,  while  it  took  away  from  my  appe 
tite. 

In  fact,  I  found  that  I  had  made  a  mistake.  I 
had  eaten  a  hearty  dinner  five  hours  before,  and 
to  have  done  justice  to  the  fare  before  me  I  should 
have  fasted  for  a  couple  of  days.  The  pannikin 
contained  skilly,  three-quarters  of  a  pint,  a  mixture 
of  Indian  corn  and  hot  water.  The  men  were 
dipping  their  bread  into  heaps  of  salt  scattered 
over  the  dirty  tables.  I  attempted  the  same,  but 
the  bread  seemed  to  stick  in  my  mouth,  and  I 
remembered  the  words  of  the  Carpenter :  "  You 
need  a  pint  of  water  to  eat  the  bread  nicely." 

I  went  over  into  a  dark  corner  where  I  had 
observed  other  men  going,  and  found  the  water. 
Then  I  returned  and  attacked  the  skilly.  It  was 
coarse  of  texture,  unseasoned,  gross,  and  bitter. 
This  bitterness  which  lingered  persistently  in  the 
mouth  after  the  skilly  had  passed  on,  I  found  es 
pecially  repulsive.  I  struggled  manfully,  but  was 
mastered  by  my  qualms,  and  half  a  dozen  mouth- 


THE   SPIKE  103 

fills  of  skilly  and  bread  was  the  measure  of  my 
success.  The  man  beside  me  ate  his  own  share, 
and  mine  to  boot,  scraped  the  pannikins,  and  looked 
hungrily  for  more. 

"  I  met  a  '  towny,'  and  he  stood  me  too  good  a 
dinner,"  I  explained. 

"  An'  I  'aven't  'ad  a  bite  since  yesterday  mornin','' 
he  replied. 

"How  about  tobacco?"  I  asked.  "Will  the 
bloke  bother  with  a  fellow  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered  me.  "  No  bloody  fear. 
This -is  the  easiest  spike  goin'.  Y'oughto  see  some 
of  them.  Search  you  to  the  skin." 

The  pannikins  scraped  clean,  conversation  began 
to  spring  up.  "  This  super'tendent  'ere  is  always 
writin'  to  the  papers  'bout  us  mugs,"  said  the  man 
on  the  other  side  of  me. 

"What  does  he  say?"   I  asked. 

"  Oh,  'e  sez  we're  no  good,  a  lot  o'  blackguards 
an'  scoundrels  as  won't  work.  Tells  all  the  ole 
tricks  I've  bin  'earin'  for  twenty  years  an'  w'ich  I 
never  seen  a  mug  ever  do.  Las'  thing  of  'is  I  see, 
'e  was  tellin'  'ow  a  mug  gets  out  o'  the  spike,  wi' 
a  crust  in  'is  pockit.  An'  w'en  'e  sees  a  nice  ole 
gentleman  comin'  along  the  street  'e  chucks  the 
crust  into  the  drain,  an'  borrows  the  old  gent's 
stick  to  poke  it  out.  An'  then  the  ole  gent  gi'es 
'im  a  tanner "  [sixpence]. 


104  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

A  roar  of  applause  greeted  the  time-honored  yarn, 
and  from  somewhere  over  in  the  deeper  darkness 
came  another  voice,  orating  angrily  :  — 

"  Talk  o'  the  country  bein'  good  for  tommy  [food]. 
I'd  like  to  see  it.  I  jest  came  up  from  Dover,  an' 
blessed  little  tommy  I  got.  They  won't  gi'  ye  a 
drink  o'  w7ater,  they  won't,  much  less  tommy." 

"  There's  mugs  never  go  out  of  Kent,"  spoke  a 
second  voice,  "  an'  they  live  bloomin'  fat  all  along." 

"  I  come  through  Kent,"  went  on  the  first  voice, 
still  more  angrily,  "an'  Gawd  blimey  if  I  see  any 
tommy.  An'  I  always  notices  as  the  blokes  as 
talks  about  'ow  much  they  can  get,  w'en  they're  in 
the  spike  can  eat  my  share  o'  skilly  as  well  as 
their  bleedin'  own." 

"  There's  chaps  in  London,"  said  a  man  across 
the  table  from  me,  "  that  get  all  the  tommy  they 
want,  an'  they  never  think  o'  goin'  to  the  country. 
Stay  in  London  the  year  'round.  Nor  do  they 
think  of  lookin'  for  a  kip  [place  to  sleep],  till  nine 
or  ten  o'clock  at  night." 

A  general  chorus  verified  this  statement. 

"  But  they're  bloody  clever,  them  chaps,"  said  an 
admiring  voice. 

"  Course  they  are,"  said  another  voice.  "  But  it's 
not  the  likes  of  me  an'  you  can  do  it.  You  got  to 
be  born  to  it,  I  say.  Them  chaps  'ave  ben  openin' 
cabs  an'  sellin'  papers  since  the  day  they  was  born, 


THE   SPIKE  105 

an'  their  fathers  an'  mothers  before  'em.  It's  all  in 
the  trainin',  I  say,  an'  the  likes  of  me  an'  you  'ud 
starve  at  it." 

This  also  was  verified  by  the  general  chorus,  and 
likewise  the  statement  that  there  were  "  mugs  as 
lives  the  twelvemonth  'round  in  the  spike  an'  never 
get  a  blessed  bit  o'  tommy  other  than  spike  skilly 
an'  bread." 

"  I  once  got  arf  a  crown  in  the  Stratford  spike," 
said  a  new  voice.  Silence  fell  on  the  instant,  and 
all  listened  to  the  wonderful  tale.  "  There  was  three 

of  us  breakin'  stones.       Winter-time,  an'  the    cold 

* 

was  cruel.  T'other  two  said  they'd  be  blessed  if 
they  do  it,  an'  they  didn't ;  but  I  kept  wearin'  into 
mine  to  warm  up,  you  know.  An'  then  the 
guardians  come,  an'  t'other  chaps  got  run  in  for 
fourteen  days,  an'  the  guardians,  w'en  they  see 
wot  I'd  been  doin',  gives  me  a  tanner  each,  five  o' 
them,  an'  turns  me  up." 

The  majority  of  these  men,  nay,  all  of  them,  I 
found,  do  not  like  the  spike,  and  only  come  to  it 
when  driven  in.  After  the  'rest  up'  they  are  good 
for  two  or  three  days  and  nights  on  the  streets, 
when  they  are  driven  in  again  for  another  rest.  Of 
course,  this  continuous  hardship  quickly  breaks 
their  constitutions,  and  they  realize  it,  though  only 
in  a  vague  way ;  while  it  is  so  much  the  common 
run  of  things  that  they  do  not  worry  about  it. 


106  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

'  On  the  doss,'  they  call  vagabondage  here,  which 
corresponds  to  'on  the  road  '  in  the  United  States. 
The  agreement  is  that  kipping,  or  dossing,  or  sleep 
ing,  is  the  hardest  problem  they  have  to  face,  harder 
even  than  that  of  food.  The  inclement  weather 
and  the  harsh  laws  are  mainly  responsible  for  this, 
while  the  men  themselves  ascribe  their  homeless- 
ness  to  foreign  immigration,  especially  of  Polish  and 
Russian  Jews,  who  take  their  places  at  lower  wages 
and  establish  the  sweating  system. 

By  seven  o'clock  we  were  called  away  to  bathe 
and  go  to  bed.  We  stripped  our  clothes,  wrapping 
them  up  in  our  coats  and  buckling  our  belts  about 
them,  and  deposited  them  in  a  heaped  rack  and  on 
the  floor  —  a  beautiful  scheme  for  the  spread  of 
vermin.  Then,  two  by  two,  wre  entered  the  bath 
room.  There  were  two  ordinary  tubs,  and  this  I 
know :  the  two  men  preceding  had  washed  in  that 
water,  we  washed  in  the  same  water,  and  it  was  not 
chano;ed  for  the  t\vo  men  that  followed  us.  This 

O 

I  know ;  but  I  am  quite  certain  that  the  twenty-two 
of  us  washed  in  the  same  water. 

I  did  no  more  than  make  a  show  of  splashing 
some  of  this  dubious  liquid  at  myself,  while  I  hastily 
brushed  it  off  with  a  towel  wet  from  the  bodies  of 
other  men.  My  equanimity  was  not  restored  by 
seeing  the  back  of  one  poor  wretch  a  mass  of  blood 
from  attacks  of  vermin  and  retaliatory  scratching. 


THE    SPIKE  107 

A  shirt  was  handed  me  —  which  I  could  not  help 
but  wonder  how  many  other  men  had  worn ;  and 
with  a  couple  of  blankets  under  my  arm  I  trudged 
off  to  the  sleeping  apartment.  This  was  a  long, 
narrow  room,  traversed  by  two  low  iron  rails.  Be 
tween  these  rails  wrere  stretched,  not  hammocks, 
but  pieces  of  canvas,  six  feet  long  and  less  than  two 
feet  wide.  These  were  the  beds,  and  they  were 
six  inches  apart  and  about  eight  inches  above  the 
floor.  The  chief  difficulty  was  that  the  head  was 
somewhat  higher  than  the  feet,  which  caused  the 
body  constantly  to  slip  down.  Being  slung  to  the 
same  rails,  when  one  man  moved,  no  matter  how 
slightly,  the  rest  were  set  rocking;  and  whenever  I 
dozed  somebody  was  sure  to  struggle  back  to  the 
position  from  which  he  had  slipped,  and  arouse  me 
again. 

O 

Many  hours  passed  before  I  won  to  sleep.  It 
was  only  seven  in  the  evening,  and  the  voices  of 
children,  in  shrill  outcry,  playing  in  the  street,  con 
tinued  till  nearly  midnight.  The  smell  was  fright 
ful  and  sickening,  while  my  imagination  broke 
loose,  and  my  skin  crept  and  crawled  till  I  was 
nearlv  frantic.  Grunting,  «;roanin£,  and  snoring 

J  O         O  O7  O 

arose  like  the  sounds  emitted  by  some  sea  monster, 
and  several  times,  afflicted  by  nightmare,  one  or 
another,  by  his  shrieks  and  yells,  aroused  the  lot  of 
us.  Toward  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a  rat 


io8 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


or  some  similar  animal  on  my  breast.  In  the  quick 
transition  from  sleep  to  waking,  before  I  was  com 
pletely  myself,  I  raised  a  shout  to  wake  the  dead. 
At  any  rate,  I  woke  the  living,  and  they  cursed  me 
roundly  for  my  lack  of  manners. 


WHITECHAPEL  I  N  FI  KM  A  R  v. 

But  morning  came,  with  a  six  o'clock  breakfast  of 
bread  and  skilly,  which  I  gave  away;  and  we  were 
told  off  to  our  various  tasks.  Some  were  set  to 
scrubbing  and  cleaning,  others  to  picking  oakum, 
and  eight  of  us  were  convoyed  across  the  street  to 
the  Whitechape!  Infirmary,  where  \ve  were  set  at 
scavenger  work.  This  was  the  method  by  which 


THE   SPIKE 

we  paid  for  our  skilly  and  canvas,  and  I,  for  one, 
know  that  I  paid  in  full  many  times  over. 

Though  we  had  most  revolting  tasks  to  perform, 
our  allotment  was  considered  the  best,  and  the  other 
men  deemed  themselves  lucky  in  being  chosen  to 
perform  it. 

"  Don't  touch  it,  mate,  the  nurse  sez  it's  deadly," 
warned  my  working  partner,  as  I  held  open  a  sack 
into  which  he  was  emptying  a  garbage  can. 

It  came  from  the  sick  \vards,  and  I  told  him  that 
I  purposed  neither  to  touch  it,  nor  to  allow  it  to 
touch  <jne.  Nevertheless,  I  had  to  carry  the  sack, 
and  other  sacks,  down  five  flights  of  stairs  and 
empty  them  in  a  receptacle  where  the  corruption 
was  speedily  sprinkled  with  strong  disinfectant. 

Perhaps  there  is  a  wise  mercy  in  all  this.  These 
men  of  the  spike,  the  peg,  and  the  street,  are  encum 
brances.  They  are  of  no  good  or  use  to  any  one, 
nor  to  themselves.  They  clutter  the  earth  with 
their  presence,  and  are  better  out  of  the  way. 
Broken  by  hardship,  ill  fed,  and  worse  nourished, 
they  are  always  the  first  to  be  struck  down  by 
disease,  as  they  are  likewise  the  quickest  to  die. 

They  feel,  themselves,  that  the  forces  of  society 
tend  to  hurl  them  out  of  existence.  We  were 
sprinkling  disinfectant  by  the  mortuary,  when  the 
dead  wagon  drove  up  and  five  bodies  were  packed 
into  it.  The  conversation  turned  to  the  '  white 


110  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

potion  '  and  '  black  jack,'  and  I  found  they  were  all 
agreed  that  the  poor  person,  man  or  woman,  who  in 
the  Infirmary  gave  too  much  trouble  or  was  in  a 
bad  way,  was  'polished  off.'  That  is  to  say,  the 
incurables  and  the  obstreperous  were  given  a  dose 
of  '  black  jack  '  or  the  '  white  potion,'  and  sent  over 
the  divide.  It  does  not  matter  in  the  least  whether 
this  be  actually  so  or  not.  The  point  is,  they  have 
the  feeling  that  it  is  so,  and  they  have  created  the 
language  with  which  to  express  that  feeling  — 
'black  jack,'  'white  potion,'  'polishing  off.' 

At  eight  o'clock  we  went  down  into  a  cellar 
under  the  Infirmary,  where  tea  was  brought  to  us, 
and  the  hospital  scraps.  These  were  heaped  high 
on  a  huge  platter  in  an  indescribable  mess  —  pieces 
of  bread,  chunks  of  grease  and  fat  pork,  the  burnt 
skin  from  the  outside  of  roasted  joints,  bones,  in 
short,  all  the  leavings  from  the  fingers  and  mouths 
of  the  sick  ones  suffering  from  all  manner  of  dis 
eases.  Into  this  mess  the  men  plunged  their  hands, 
digging,  pawing,  turning  over,  examining,  reject 
ing,  and  scrambling  for.  It  wasn't  pretty.  Pigs 
couldn't  have  done  worse.  But  the  poor  devils 
were  hungry,  and  they  ate  ravenously  of  the  swill, 
and  when  they  could  eat  no  more  they  bundled 
what  was  left  into  their  handkerchiefs  and  thrust  it 
inside  their  shirts. 

"  Once,  w'en  I  was  'ere  before,  wot  did  I  find  out 


THE   SPIKE  III 

there  but  a  'ole  lot  of  pork-ribs,"  said  Ginger  to  me. 
By  '  out  there  '  he  meant  the  place  where  the  corrup 
tion  was  dumped  and  sprinkled  with  strong  disin 
fectant.  "  They  was  a  prime  lot,  no  end  o'  meat  on 
'em,  an'  I  'ad  'em  into  my  arms  an'  was  out  the  gate 
an'  down  the  street,  a-lookin'  for  some  'un  to  gi'  'em 
to.  Couldn't  see  a  soul,  an'  I  was  runnin'  'round, 
clean  crazy,  the  bloke  runnin'  after  me  an'  thinkin' 
I  was  '  slingin'  my  'ook  '  [running  away].  But  jest 
before  'e  got  me,  I  got  a  ole  woman  an'  poked  'em 
into  'er  apron." 

O  *  Chanty,  O  Philanthropy,  descend  to  the 
spike  and  take  a  lesson  from  Ginger.  At  the  bot 
tom  of  the  Abyss  he  performed  as  purely  an  altruis 
tic  act  as  was  ever  performed  outside  the  Abyss. 
It  was  fine  of  Ginger,  and  if  the  old  woman  caught 
some  contagion  from  the  '  no  end  o'  meat '  on  the 
pork-ribs,  it  was  still  fine,  though  not  so  fine.  But 
the  most  salient  thing  in  this  incident,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  poor  Ginger,  '  clean  crazy '  at  sight  of  so 
much  food  going  to  waste. 

It  is  the  rule  of  the  casual  ward  that  a  man  who 
enters  must  stay  two  nights  and  a  day;  but  I  had 
seen  sufficient  for  my  purpose,  had  paid  for  my 
skilly  and  canvas,  and  was  preparing  to  run  for  it. 

"  Come  on,  let's  sling  it,"  I  said  to  one  of  my 
mates,  pointing  toward  the  op  n  gate  through  which 
the  dead  wagon  had  come. 


112  THE   PEOPLE  OF   THE   ABYSS 

"  An'  get  fourteen  days  ?  " 

"  No ;  get  away." 

"  Aw,  I  come  'ere  for  a  rest,"  he  said  compla 
cently.  "  An'  another  night's  kip  won't  'urt  me 
none." 

They  were  all  of  this  opinion,  so  I  was  forced  to 
*  sling  it '  alone. 

"  You  cawn't  ever  come  back  'ere  again  for  a 
doss,"  they  warned  me. 

"  No  bloody  fear,"  said  I,  with  an  enthusiasm  they 
could  not  comprehend ;  and,  dodging  out  the  gate, 
I  sped  down  the  street. 

Straight  to  my  room  I  hurried,  changed  my 
clothes,  and  less  than  an  hour  from  my  escape,  in  a 
Turkish  bath,  I  was  sweating  out  whatever  germs 
and  other  things  had  penetrated  my  epidermis,  and 
wishing  that  I  could  stand  a  temperature  of  three 
hundred  and  twenty  rather  than  two  hundred  and 
twenty. 


CHAPTER   X 

CARRYING    THE    BANNER 

I  would  not  have  the  laborer  sacrificed  to  the  result.  I  would  not 
have  the  laborer  sacrificed  to  my  convenience  and  pride,  nor  to  that  of  a 
great  class  of  such  as  me.  Let  there  be  worse  cotton  and  better  men. 
The  weaver  should  not  be  bereaved  of  his  superiority  to  his  work. 

—  EMERSON. 

'  To  carry  the  banner  '  means  to  walk  the  streets 
all  night ;  and  I,  with  the  figurative  emblem  hoisted, 
went  out  to  see  what  I  could  see.  Men  and  women 
walk  the  streets  at  night  all  over  this  great  city,  but 
I  selected  the  West  End,  making  Leicester  Square 
my  base,  and  scouting  about  from  the  Thames  Em 
bankment  to  Hyde  Park. 

The  rain  was  falling  heavily  when  the  theatres  let 
out,  and  the  brilliant  throng  which  poured  from  the 
places  of  amusement  was  hard  put  to  find  cabs. 
The  streets  were  so  many  wild  rivers  of  cabs,  most 
of  which  were  engaged,  however ;  and  here  I  saw 
the  desperate  attempts  of  ragged  men  and  boys  to 
get  a  shelter  from  the  night  by  procuring  cabs  for 
the  cabless  ladies  and  gentlemen.  I  use  the  word 
'  desperate '  advisedly  ;  for  these  wretched  homeless 
ones  were  gambling  a  soaking  against  a  bed ;  and 
i  113 


THE  PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

most  of  them,  I  took  notice,  got  the  soaking  and 
missed  the  bed.  Now,  to  go  through  a  stormy  night 
with  wet  clothes,  and,  in  addition,  to  be  ill-nourished 
and  not  to  have  tasted  meat  for  a  week  or  a  month, 
is  about  as  severe  a  hardship  as  a  man  can  undergo. 
Well-fed  and  well-clad,  I  have  travelled  all  day  with 


ALONG  LEICESTER  SQUARE  AT  NIGHT. 

the  spirit  thermometer  down  to  seventy-four  degrees 
below  zero ;  and  though  I  suffered,  it  was  a  mere 
nothing  compared  writh  carrying  the  banner  for  a 
night,  ill-fed,  ill-clad,  and  soaking  wet. 

The  streets  grew  very  quiet  and  lonely  after  the 
theatre  crowd  had  gone  home.  Only  were  to  be 
seen  the  ubiquitous  policemen,  flashing  their  dark 


CARRYING   THE   BANNER  115 

lanterns  into  doorways  and  alleys,  and  men  and 
women  and  boys  taking  shelter  in  the  lee  of  build 
ings  from  the  wind  and  rain.  Piccadilly,  however, 
was  not  quite  so  deserted.  Its  pavements  were 
brightened  by  well-dressed  women  without  escort, 
and  there  was  more  life  and  action  there  than  else- 


"I    SAW   ONE   OLD   WOMAN,    A    SHEER    WRECK,    SLEEPING   SOUNDLY.' 


where,  due  to  the  process  of  finding  escort.  But  by 
three  o'clock  the  last  of  them  had  vanished,  and  it 
was  then  indeed  lonely. 

At  half-past  one  the  steady  downpour  ceased,  and 
only  showers  fell  thereafter.  The  homeless  folk 
came  away  from  the  protection  of  the  buildings,  and 


Il6  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

slouched  up  and  down  and  everywhere,  in  order  to 
rush  up  the  circulation  and  keep  warm. 

One  old  woman,  between  fifty  and  sixty,  a  sheer 
wreck,  I  had  noticed,  earlier  in  the  night,  standing 
in  Piccadilly,  not  far  from  Leicester  Square.  She 
seemed  to  have  neither  the  sense  nor  the  strength 
to  get  out  of  the  rain  or  keep  walking,  but  stood 
stupidly,  whenever  she  got  the  chance,  meditating 
on  past  days,  I  imagine,  when  life  was  young  and 
blood  was  warm.  But  she  did  not  Q-et  the  chance 

O 

often.  She  was  moved  on  by  every  policeman,  and 
it  required  an  average  of  six  moves  to  send  her  dod 
dering  off  one  man's  beat  and  on  to  another's.  By 
three  o'clock  she  had  progressed  as  far  as  St.  James 
Street,  and  as  the  clocks  were  striking  four  I  saw 
her  sleeping  soundly  against  the  iron  railings  of 
Green  Park.  A  brisk  shower  was  falling  at  the 
time,  and  she  must  have  been  drenched  to  the  skin. 

Now,  said  I,  at  one  o'clock,  to  myself;  consider 
that  you  are  a  poor  young  man,  penniless,  in  Lon 
don  Town,  and  that  to-morrow  you  must  look  for 
work.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  that  you  get  some 
sleep  in  order  that  you  may  have  strength  to  look 
for  work  and  to  do  work  in  case  you  find  it. 

So  I  sat  down  on  the  stone  steps  of  a  building. 
Five  minutes  later,  a  policeman  was  looking  at  me. 
My  eyes  were  wide  open,  so  he  only  grunted  and 
passed  on.  Ten  minutes  later  my  head  was  on 


UNDER  THE  ARCHES." 


CARRYING   THE    BANNER  1 1/ 

my  knees,  I  was  dozing,  and  the  same  policeman 
was  saying  gruffly,  "'Ere,  you,  get  outa  that!" 

I  got.  And,  like  the  old  woman,  I  continued 
to  get ;  for  every  time  I  dozed,  a  policeman  was 
there  to  rout  me  along  again.  Not  long  after, 
when  I  had  given  this  up,  I  was  walking  with  a 
young  Londoner  (who  had  been  out  to  the  col 
onies  and  wished  he  were  out  to  them  again),  when 
I  noticed  an  open  passage  leading  under  a  building 
and  disappearing  in  darkness.  A  low  iron  gate 
barred  the  entrance. 

"  Qome  on,"  I  said.  "  Let's  climb  over  and  get 
a  good  sleep." 

"  Wot  ?  "  he  answered,  recoiling  from  me.  "  An' 
get  run  in  fer  three  months!  Blimey  if  I  do !  " 

Later  on,  I  was  passing  Hyde  Park  with  a  young 
boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  a  most  wretched-looking 
youth,  gaunt  and  hollow-eyed  and  sick. 

"  Let's  go  over  the  fence,"  I  proposed,  "and 
crawl  into  the  shrubbery  for  a  sleep.  The  bobbies 
couldn't  find  us  there." 

"  No  fear,"  he  answered.  "  There's  the  park 
guardians,  and  they'd  run  you  in  for  six  months." 

Times  have  changed,  alas !  When  I  was  a 
youngster  I  used  to  read  of  homeless  boys  sleep 
ing  in  doorways.  Already  the  thing  has  become 
a  tradition.  As  a  stock  situation  it  will  doubt 
lessly  linger  in  literature  for  a  century  to  come, 


Il8  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

but  as  a  cold  fact  it  has  ceased  to  be.  Here  are 
the  doorways,  and  here  are  the  boys,  but  happy 
conjunctions  are  no  longer  effected.  The  door 
ways  remain  empty,  and  the  boys  keep  awake  and 
carry  the  banner. 

"  I  was  down  under  the  arches,"  grumbled 
another  young  fellow.  By  '  arches '  he  meant  the 
shore  arches  where  begin  the  bridges  that  span 
the  Thames.  "  I  was  down  under  the  arches, 
w'en  it  was  ryning  its  'ardest,  an'  a  bobby  comes 
in  an'  chyses  me  out.  But  I  come  back,  an'  'e 
come  too.  '  'Ere,'  sez  'e,  '  wot  you  doin'  'ere  ? ' 
An'  out  I  goes,  but  I  sez,  '  Think  I  want  ter  pinch 
[steal]  the  bleedin'  bridge  ? '  " 

Among  those  who  carry  the  banner,  Green  Park 
has  the  reputation  of  opening  its  gates  earlier  than 
the  other  parks,  and  at  quarter-past  four  in  the 
morning,  I,  and  many  more,  entered  Green  Park. 
It  was  raining  again,  but  they  were  worn  out  with 
the  night's  walking,  and  they  were  down  on  the 
benches  and  asleep  at  once.  Many  of  the  men 
stretched  out  full  length  on  the  dripping  wet 
grass,  and,  with  the  rain  falling  steadily  upon  them, 
were  sleeping  the  sleep  of  exhaustion. 

And  now  I  wish  to  criticise  the  powers  that  be. 
They  are  the  powers,  therefore  they  may  decree 
whatever  they  please ;  so  I  make  bold  only  to  criti 
cise  the  ridiculousness  of  their  decrees.  All  night 


CARRYING    THE    BANNER  119 

long  they  make  the  homeless  ones  walk  up  and 
down.  They  drive  them  out  of  doors  and  pas 
sages,  and  lock  them  out  of  the  parks.  The  evi 
dent  intention  of  all  this  is  to  deprive  them  of 
sleep.  Well  and  good,  the  powers  have  the  power 
to  deprive  them  of  sleep,  or  of  anything  else  for 
that  matter;  but  why  under  the  sun  do  they  open 
the  gates  of  the  parks  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing  and  let  the  homeless  ones  go  inside  and  sleep? 
If  it  is  their  intention  to  deprive  them  of  sleep,  why 
do  the^  let  them  sleep  after  five  in  the  morning? 
And  if  it  is  not  their  intention  to  deprive  them  of 
sleep,  why  don't  they  let  them  sleep  earlier  in  the 
night  ? 

In  this  connection,  I  will  say  that  I  came  by 
Green  Park  that  same  day,  at  one  in  the  afternoon, 
and  that  I  counted  scores  of  the  ragged  wretches 
asleep  in  the  grass.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  the 
sun  was  fitfully  appearing,  and  the  well-dressed 
West  Enders,  with  their  wives  and  progeny,  were 
out  by  thousands,  taking  the  air.  It  was  not  a 
pleasant  sight  for  them,  those  horrible,  unkempt, 
sleeping  vagabonds ;  while  the  vagabonds  them 
selves,  I  know,  would  rather  have  done  their  sleep 
ing  the  night  before. 

And  so,  dear  soft  people,  should  you  ever  visit 
London  Town,  and  see  these  men  asleep  on  the 
benches  and  in  the  grass,  please  do  not  think  they 


120         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

are  lazy  creatures,  preferring  sleep  to  work.  Know 
that  the  powers  that  be  have  kept  them  walking 
all  the  night  long,  and  that  in  the  day  they  have 
nowhere  else  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE    PEG 

And  I  believe  that  this  claim  for  a  healthy  body  for  all  of  us  carries 
With  it  all  other  due  claims  :  for  who  knows  where  the  seeds  of  disease, 
which  even  rich  people  suffer  from,  were  first  sown  ?  From  the  luxury 
of  an  ancestor,  perhaps  ;  yet  often,  I  suspect,  from  his  poverty. 

—  WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
» 

Brx,  after  carrying  the  banner  all  night,  I  did  not 
sleep  in  Green  Park  when  morning  dawned.  I  was 
wet  to  the  skin,  it  is  true,  and  I  had  had  no  sleep 
for  twenty-four  hours ;  but,  still  adventuring  as  a 
penniless  man  looking  for  work,  I  had  to  look  about 
me,  first  for  a  breakfast,  and  next  for  the  work. 

During  the  night  I  had  heard  of  a  place  over  on 
the  Surrey  side  of  the  Thames,  where  the  Salvation 
Army  every  Sunday  morning  grave  away  a  breakfast 

*  ^  j  d>    d>  J 

to  the  unwashed.  (And,  by  the  way,  the  men  who 
carry  the  banner  arc  unwashed  in  the  morning,  and 
unless  it  is  raining  they  do  not  have  much  show  for 
a  wash,  either.)  This,  thought  I,  is  the  very  thing, 
—  breakfast  in  the  morning,  and  then  the  whole 
day  in  which  to  look  for  work. 

It  was  a  weary  walk.  Down  St.  James  Street 
I  dragged  my  tired  legs,  along  Pall  Mall,  past 


122  THE   PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 

Trafalgar  Square,  to  the  Strand.  I  crossed  the 
Waterloo  Bridge  to  the  Surrey  side,  cut  across 
to  Blackfriars  Road,  coming  out  near  the  Surrey 
Theatre,  and  arrived  at  the  Salvation  Army  bar 
racks  before  seven  o'clock.  This  was  '  the  peg.' 
And  by  '  the  peg,'  in  the  argot,  is  meant  the  place 
where  a  free  meal  may  be  obtained. 

Here  was  a  motley  crowd  of  woebegone  wretches 
who  had  spent  the  night  in  the  rain.  Such  pro 
digious  misery !  and  so  much  of  it !  Old  men, 
young  men,  all  manner  of  men,  and  boys  to  boot, 
and  all  manner  of  boys.  Some  were  drowsing 
standing  up ;  half  a  score  of  them  were  stretched 
out  on  the  stone  steps  in  most  painful  postures,  all 
of  them  sound  asleep,  the  skin  of  their  bodies  show 
ing  red  through  the  holes  and  rents  in  their  raijs. 

o  o  o 

And  up  and  down  the  street  and  across  the  street 
for  a  block  either  way,  each  doorstep  had  from  two 
to  three  occupants,  all  asleep,  their  heads  bent  for 
ward  on  their  knees.  And,  it  must  be  remembered, 
these  are  not  hard  times  in  England.  Things  are 
going  on  very  much  as  they  ordinarily  do,  and  times 
are  neither  hard  nor  easy. 

And  then  came  the  policeman.  "  Get  outa  that,  you 
bloody  swine!  Eigh  !  eigh  !  Get  out  now!"  And 
like  swine  he  drove  them  from  the  doorways  and 
scattered  them  to  the  four  winds  of  Surrey.  But 
when  he  encountered  the  crowd  asleep  on  the  steps 


THE   PEG  123 

he  was  astounded.  "  Shocking !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Shocking  !  And  of  a  Sunday  morning  !  A  pretty 
sight !  Eigh !  eigh !  Get  outa  that,  you  bleeding 
nuisances !  " 

Of  course  it  was  a  shocking  sight.  I  was  shocked 
myself.  And  I  should  not  care  to  have  my  own 
daughter  pollute  her  eyes  with  such  a  sight,  or  come 
within  half  a  mile  of  it ;  but  —  and  there  we  were, 
and  there  you  are,  and  '  but '  is  all  that  can  be  said. 

The  policeman  passed  on,  and  back  we  clustered, 
like  flies  around  a  honey  jar.  For  was  there  not 
that  .wonderful  thing,  a  breakfast,  awaiting  us  ?  We 
could  not  have  clustered  more  persistently  and  des 
perately  had  they  been  giving  away  million-dollar 
bank-notes.  Some  were  already  off  to  sleep,  when 
back  came  the  policeman  and  away  we  scattered, 
only  to  return  again  as  soon  as  the  coast  was  clear. 

At  half-past  seven  a  little  door  opened,  and  a  Sal 
vation  Army  soldier  stuck  out  his  head.  "  Ayn't 
no  sense  blockin'  the  wy  up  that  wy,"  he  said. 
"  Those  as  'as  tickets  cawn  come  hin  now,  an' 
those  as  'asn't  cawn't  come  hin  till  nine." 

Oh,  that  breakfast!  Nine  o'clock  !  An  hour  and 
a  half  longer !  The  men  who  held  tickets  were 
greatly  envied.  They  were  permitted  to  go  inside, 
have  a  wash,  and  sit  down  and  rest  until  break 
fast,  while  we  waited  for  the  same  breakfast  on  the 
street.  The  tickets  had  been  distributed  the  pre- 


124 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 


vious  night  on  the  streets  and  along  the  Embank 
ment,  and  the  possession  of  them  was  not  a  matter 
of  merit,  but  of  chance. 

At    eight-thirty,    more    men    with    tickets    were 
admitted,  and  by  nine  the  little  gate  was  opened  to 


INSIDE  THE  COURTYARD  OF  THE  SALVATION  ARMY  BARRACKS 
ON  SUNDAY  MORNING. 

us.  We  crushed  through  somehow,  and  found  our 
selves  packed  in  a  courtyard  like  sardines.  On 
more  occasions  than  one,  as  a  Yankee  tramp  in 
Yankeeland,  I  have  had  to  work  for  my  breakfast ; 
but  for  no  breakfast  did  I  ever  work  so  hard  as  for 


THE  PEG  125 

this  one.  For  over  two  hours  I  had  waited  outside, 
and  for  over  another  hour  I  waited  in  this  packed 
courtyard.  I  had  had  nothing  to  eat  all  night,  and 
I  was  weak  and  faint,  while  the  smell  of  the  soiled 
clothes  and  unwashed  bodies,  steaming  from  pent 
animal  heat,  and  blocked  solidly  about  me,  nearly 
turned  my  stomach.  So  tightly  were  we  packed, 
that  a  number  of  the  men  took  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  and  went  soundly  asleep  standing  up. 
Now,  about  the  Salvation  Army  in  o-eneral  I 

J  O 

know  nothing,  and  whatever  criticism  I  shall  make 
here  is*  of  that  particular  portion  of  the  Salvation 
Army  which  does  business  on  Blackfriars  Road 
near  the  Surrey  Theatre.  In  the  first  place,  this 
forcing  of  men  who  have  been  up  all  night  to  stand 
on  their  feet  for  hours  longer,  is  as  cruel  as  it  is 
needless.  We  were  weak,  famished,  and  exhausted 
from  our  night's  hardship  and  lack  of  sleep,  and  yet 
there  we  stood,  and  stood,  and  stood,  without  rhyme 
or  reason. 

Sailors   were   very   plentiful    in    this    crowd.       It 
seemed  to  me  that   one   man  in  four  was  looking: 

O 

for  a  ship,  and   I  found  at  least  a  dozen  of  them 

to   be   American   sailors.     In   accounting  for   their 

j being  'on   the  beach,'   I    received    the   same    story 

| from  each  and  all,  and  from  my  knowledge  of  sea 

affairs    this   story    rang    true.     English    ships    sign 

| their  sailors  for  the  voyage,  which  means  the  round 


126  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

trip,  sometimes  lasting  as  long  as  three  years ;  and 
they  cannot  sign  off  and  receive  their  discharges 
until  they  reach  the  home  port,  which  is  England. 
Their  wages  are  low,  their  food  is  bad,  and  their 
treatment  worse.  Very  often  they  are  really  forced 
by  their  captains  to  desert  in  the  New  World  or 
the  colonies,  leaving  a  handsome  sum  of  wages 
behind  them,  —  a  distinct  gain,  either  to  the  captain 
or  the  owners,  or  to  both.  But  whether  for  this 
reason  alone  or  not,  it  is  a  fact  that  large  numbers 
of  them  desert.  Then,  for  the  home  voyage,  the 
ship  engages  whatever  sailors  it  can  find  on  the 
beach.  These  men  are  engaged  at  the  somewhat 
higher  wages  that  obtain  in  other  portions  of  the 
world,  under  the  agreement  that  they  shall  sign  off  on 
reaching  England.  The  reason  for  this  is  obvious  ; 
for  it  would  be  poor  business  policy  to  sign  them 
for  any  longer  time,  since  seamen's  wages  are  low 
in  England,  and  England  is  always  crowded  with 
sailormen  on  the  beach.  So  this  fully  accounted 
for  the  American  seamen  at  the  Salvation  Army 
barracks.  To  get  off  the  beach  in  other  outlandish 
places  they  had  come  to  England,  and  gone  on  the 
beach  in  the  most  outlandish  place  of  all. 

There  were  fully  a  score  of  Americans  in  the 
crowd,  the  non-sailors  being  '  tramps  royal,'  the  men 
whose  '  mate  is  the  wind  that  tramps  the  world.' 
They  were  all  cheerful,  facing  things  with  the  pluck 


THE   PEG  127 

which  is  their  chief  characteristic  and  which  seems 
never  to  desert  them,  withal  they  were  cursing  the 
country  with  lurid  metaphors  quite  refreshing  after 
a  month  of  unimaginative,  monotonous  Cockney 
swearing.  The  Cockney  has  one  oath,  and  one 
oath  only,  the  most  indecent  in  the  language,  which 
he  uses  on  any  and  every  occasion.  Far  different 
is  the  luminous  and  varied  Western  swearing,  which 
runs  to  blasphemy  rather  than  indecency.  And 
after  all,  since  men  will  swear,  I  think  I  prefer 
blasphejiiy  to  indecency ;  there  is  an  audacity  about 
it,  an  adventurousness  and  defiance  that  is  far  finer 
than  sheer  filthiness. 

There  was  one  American  tramp  royal  whom  I 
found  particularly  enjoyable.  I  first  noticed  him 
on  the  street,  asleep  in  a  doorway,  his  head  on  his 
knees,  but  a  hat  on  his  head  that  one  does  not 
meet  this  side  of  the  Western  Ocean.  When  the 
policeman  routed  him  out,  he  got  up  slowly  and 
deliberately,  looked  at  the  policeman,  yawned  and 
stretched  himself,  looked  at  the  policeman  again 
as  much  as  to  say  he  didn't  know  whether  he 
would  or  wouldn't,  and  then  sauntered  leisurely 
down  the  sidewalk.  At  the  outset  I  was  sure  of 
the  hat,  but  this  made  me  sure  of  the  wearer  of 
the  hat. 

In  the  jam  inside  I  found  myself  alongside  of 
him,  and  we  had  quite  a  chat.  He  had  been 


128         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

through  Spain,  Italy,  Switzerland,  and  France,  and 
had  accomplished  the  practically  impossible  feat  of 
beating  his  way  three  hundred  miles  on  a  French 
railway  without  being  caught  at  the  finish.  Where 
was  I  hanging  out?  he  asked.  And  how  did  I 
manage  for  'kipping'? — which  means  sleeping.  Did 
I  know  the  rounds  yet  ?  He  was  getting  on, 
though  the  country  was  '  horstyl '  and  the  cities 
were  '  bum.'  Fierce,  wasn't  it  ?  Couldn't  '  batter ' 
(beg)  anywhere  without  being  '  pinched.'  But  he 
wasn't  going  to  quit  it.  Buffalo  Bill's  Show  was 
coming  over  soon,  and  a  man  who  could  drive 
eight  horses  was  sure  of  a  job  any  time.  These 
mugs  over  here  didn't  know  beans  about  driving 
anything  more  than  a  span.  What  was  the  matter 
with  me  hanging  on  and  waiting  for  Buffalo  Bill  ? 
He  was  sure  I  could  ring  in  somehow. 

And  so,  after  all,  blood  is  thicker  than  water. 
We  were  fellow-countrymen  and  strangers  in  a 
strange  land.  I  had  warmed  to  his  battered  old 
hat  at  sight  of  it,  and  he  was  as  solicitous  for  my 
welfare  as  if  we  were  blood  brothers.  We  swapped 
all  manner  of  useful  information  concerning  the 
country  and  the  ways  of  its  people,  methods  by 
which  to  obtain  food  and  shelter  and  what  not,  and 
we  parted  genuinely  sorry  at  having  to  say  good-by. 

One  thing  particularly  conspicuous  in  this  crowd 
was  the  shortness  of  stature.  I,  who  am  but  of 


THE  PEG 


129 


medium  height,  looked  over  the  heads  of  nine  out 
of  ten.  The  natives  were  all  short,  as  were  the 
foreign  sailors.  There  were  only  five  or  six  in  the 
crowd  who  could  be  called  fairly  tall,  and  they  were 
Scandinavians  and  Americans.  The  tallest  man 


"FOR    AN    HOUR   \VK   STOOD   OUIKTLY    IN   THIS    PACKKI)   COURTYARD." 

there,  however,  was  an  exception.  He  was  an 
Englishman,  though  not  a  Londoner.  "Candidate 
for  the  Life  Guards,"  I  remarked  to  him.  "  You've 
hit  it,  mate,"  was  his  reply ;  "  I've  served  my  bit 
in  that  same,  and  the  way  things  are  I'll  be  back 
at  it  before  long." 


130  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  ABYSS 

For  an  hour  we  stood  quietly  in  this  packed 
courtyard.  Then  the  men  began  to  grow  restless. 
There  was  pushing  and  shoving  forward,  and  a 
mild  hubbub  of  voices.  Nothing  rough,  however, 
or  violent ;  merely  the  restlessness  of  weary  and 
hungry  men.  At  this  juncture  forth  came  the 
adjutant.  I  did  not  like  him.  His  eyes  were  not 
good.  There  was  nothing  of  the  lowly  Galilean 
about  him,  but  a  great  deal  of  the  centurion  who 
said :  "  For  I  am  a  man  in  authority,  having  soldiers 
under  me;  and  I  say  to  this  man,  Go,  and  he  goeth; 
and  to  another,  Come,  and  he  cometh  ;  and  to  my 
servant,  Do  this,  and  he  doeth  it" 

Well,  he  looked  at  us  in  just  that  way,  and  those 
nearest  to  him  quailed.  Then  he  lifted  his  voice. 

"  Stop  this  'ere,  now,  or  I'll  turn  you  the  other 
wy,  an'  march  you  out,  an'  you'll  get  no  break 
fast." 

I  cannot  convey  by  printed  speech  the  insuffer 
able  way  in  which  he  said  this,  the  self-conscious 
ness  of  superiority,  the  brutal  gluttony  of  power. 
He  revelled  in  that  he  was  a  man  in  authority, 
able  to  say  to  half  a  thousand  ragged  wretches, 
"  You  may  eat  or  go  hungry,  as  I  elect." 

To  deny  us  our  breakfast  after  standing  for 
hours !  It  was  an  awful  threat,  and  the  pitiful, 
abject  silence  which  instantly  fell  attested  its  awful- 
ness.  And  it  was  a  cowardly  threat,  a  foul  blow, 


THE   PEG  131 

struck  below  the  belt.  We  could  not  strike  back, 
for  we  were  starving ;  and  it  is  the  way  of  the 
world  that  when  one  man  feeds  another  he  is 
that  man's  master.  But  the  centurion —  I  mean 
the  adjutant  —  was  not  satisfied.  In  the  dead 
silence  he  raised  his  voice  again,  and  repeated  the 
threat,  and  amplified  it,  and  glared  ferociously. 

At  last  we  were  permitted  to  enter  the  feasting 
hall,  where  we  found  the  '  ticket  men  '  washed  but 
unfed.  All  told,  there  must  have  been  nearly 
seven  hundred  of  us  who  sat  down  —  not  to  meat 
or  bread,  but  to  speech,  song,  and  prayer.  From 
all  of  which  I  am  convinced  that  Tantalus  suffers 
in  many  guises  this  side  of  the  infernal  regions. 
The  adjutant  made  the  prayer,  but  I  did  not  take 
note  of  it,  being  too  engrossed  with  the  massed 
picture  of  misery  before  me.  But  the  speech  ran 
something  like  this  :  "  You  will  feast  in  paradise. 
No  matter  how  you  starve  and  suffer  here,  you 
will  feast  in  paradise,  that  is,  if  you  will  follow  the 
directions."  And  so  forth  and  so  forth.  A  clever 
bit  of  propaganda,  I  took  it,  but  rendered  of  no 
avail  for  two  reasons.  First,  the  men  who  received 
it  were  unimaginative  and  materialistic,  unaware  of 
the  existence  of  any  Unseen,  and  too  inured  to 
hell  on  earth  to  be  frightened  by  hell  to  come. 
And  second,  weary  and  exhausted  from  the  night's 
sleeplessness  and  hardship,  suffering  from  the  long 


132  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

wait  upon  their  feet,  and  faint  from  hunger,  they 
were  yearning,  not  for  salvation,  but  for  grub.  The 
'  soul-snatchers'  (as  these  men  call  all  religious 
propagandists)  should  study  the  physiological  basis 
of  psychology  a  little,  if  they  wish  to  make  their 
efforts  more  effective. 

All  in  good  time,  about  eleven  o'clock,  breakfast 
arrived.  It  arrived,  not  on  plates,  but  in  paper 
parcels.  I  did  not  have  all  I  wanted,  and  I  am 
sure  that  no  man  there  had  all  he  wanted,  or  half 
of  what  he  wanted  or  needed.  I  gave  part  of  my 
bread  to  the  tramp  royal  who  was  waiting  for 
Buffalo  Bill,  and  he  was  as  ravenous  at  the  end  as 
he  was  in  the  beginning.  This  is  the  breakfast: 
two  slices  of  bread,  one  small  piece  of  bread  with 
raisins  in  it  and  called  '  cake,'  a  wafer  of  cheese, 
and  a  mug  of  '  water  bewitched.'  Numbers  of  the 
men  had  been  waiting  since  five  o'clock  for  it, 
while  all  of  us  had  waited  at  least  four  hours ;  and 
in  addition,  we  had  been  herded  like  swine,  packed 
like  sardines,  and  treated  like  curs,  and  been 
preached  at,  and  sung  to,  and  prayed  for.  Nor 
was  that  all. 

No  sooner  was  breakfast  over  (and  it  was  over 
almost  as  quickly  as  it  takes  to  tell)  than  the  tired 
heads  began  to  nod  and  droop,  and  in  five  minutes 
half  of  us  were  sound  asleep.  There  were  no  signs 
of  our  being  dismissed,  while  there  were  unmistak- 


THE   PEG  133 

able  signs  of  preparation  for  a  meeting.  I  looked 
at  a  small  clock  hanging  on  the  wall.  It  indicated 
twenty-five  minutes  to  twelve.  Heigh  ho,  thought 
I,  time  is  flying,  and  I  have  yet  to  look  for  work. 

"  I  want  to  go,"  I  said  to  a  couple  of  waking  men 
near  me. 

"  Got  ter  sty  fer  the  service,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Do  you  want  to  stay  ?  "  I  asked. 

They  shook  their  heads. 

"  Then  let  us  go  up  and  tell  them  we  want  to 
get  out,"  I  continued.  "Come  on." 

But  the  poor  creatures  were  aghast.  So  I  left 
them  to  their  fate,  and  went  up  to  the  nearest 
Salvation  Army  man. 

"  I  want  to  go,"  I  said.  "  I  came  here  for  break 
fast  in  order  that  I  might  be  in  shape  to  look  for 
work.  I  didn't  think  it  would  take  so  long  to  get 
breakfast.  I  think  I  have  a  chance  for  work  in 
Stepney,  and  the  sooner  I  start,  the  better  chance 
I'll  have  of  getting  it." 

He  was  really  a  good  fellow,  though  he  was 
startled  by  my  request.  "  Wy,"  he  said,  "  we're 
goin'  to  'old  services,  and  you'd  better  sty." 

"  But  that  will  spoil  my  chances  for  work,"  I 
urged.  "  And  work  is  the  most  important  thing 
for  me  just  now." 

As  he  was  only  a  private,  he  referred  me  to  the 
adjutant,  and  to  the  adjutant  I  repeated  my  rea- 


134  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

sons  for  wishing  to  go,  and  politely  requested  that 
he  let  me  go. 

"  But  it  cawn't  be  done,"  he  said,  waxing  virtu 
ously  indignant  at  such  ingratitude.  "  The  idea !  " 
he  snorted.  "  The  idea !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  can't  get  out  of 
here? "  I  demanded.  "  That  you  will  keep  me  here 
against  my  will  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  snorted. 

I  do  not  know  what  might  have  happened,  for  I 
was  waxing  indignant  myself ;  but  the  '  congrega 
tion  '  had  '  piped  '  the  situation,  and  he  drew  me 
over  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  then  into  another 
room.  Here  he  again  demanded  my  reasons  for 
wishing  to  go. 

"  I  want  to  go,"  I  said,  "  because  I  wish  to  look 
for  work  over  in  Stepney,  and  every  hour  lessens 
my  chance  of  finding  work.  It  is  now  twenty-five 
minutes  to  twelve.  I  did  not  think  when  I  came  in 
that  it  would  take  so  long  to  get  a  breakfast." 

"  You  'ave  business,  eh  ?  "  he  sneered.  "  A  man 
of  business  you  are,  eh  ?  Then  wot  did  you  come 
'ere  for  ? " 

"  I  was  out  all  night,  and  I  needed  a  breakfast 
in  order  to  strengthen  me  to  find  work.  That  is 
why  I  came  here." 

"  A  nice  thing  to  do,"  he  went  on,  in  the  same 
sneering  manner.  "A  man  with  business  shouldn't 


THE  PEG  135 

come  'ere.  You've  tyken  some  poor  man's  break 
fast  'ere  this  morning,  that's  wot  you've  done." 

Which  was  a  lie,  for  every  mother's  son  of  us 
had  come  in. 

Now  I  submit,  was  this  Christian-like,  or  even 
honest  ?  —  after  I  had  plainly  stated  that  I  was 
homeless  and  hungry,  and  that  I  wished  to  look 
for  work,  for  him  to  call  my  looking  for  work 
'  business,'  to  call  me  therefore  a  business  man, 
and  to  draw  the  corollary  that  a  man  of  business, 
and  well  off,  did  not  require  a  charity  breakfast,  and 
that*  by  taking  a  charity  breakfast  I  had  robbed 
some  hungry  waif  who  was  not  a  man  of  business. 

I  kept  my  temper,  but  I  went  over  the  facts 
again  and  clearly  and  concisely  demonstrated  to 
him  how  unjust  he  was  and  how  he  had  perverted 
the  facts.  As  I  manifested  no  signs  of  backing 
down  (and  I  am  sure  my  eyes  were  beginning  to 
snap),  he  led  me  to  the  rear  of  the  building,  where, 
in  an  open  court,  stood  a  tent.  In  the  same  sneer 
ing  tone  he  informed  a  couple  of  privates  standing 
there  that  "  'ere  is  a  fellow  that  'as  business  an'  'e 
wants  to  go  before  services." 

They  were  duly  shocked,  of  course,  and  they 
looked  unutterable  horror  while  he  went  into  the 
tent  and  brought  out  the  major.  Still  in  the  same 
sneering  manner,  laying  particular  stress  on  the 
'business,'  he  brought  my  case  before  the  com- 


136         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

manding  officer.  The  major  was  of  a  different 
stamp  of  man.  I  liked  him  as  soon  as  I  saw  him, 
and  to  him  I  stated  my  case  in  the  same  fashion  as 
before. 

"  Didn't  you  know  you  had  to  stay  for  services  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  answered,  "  or  I  should  have 
gone  without  my  breakfast.  You  have  no  placards 
posted  to  that  effect,  nor  was  I  so  informed  when  I 
entered  the  place." 

He  meditated  a  moment.     "  You  can  go,"  he  said. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  when  I  gained  the  street, 
and  I  couldn't  quite  make  up  my  mind  whether  I 
had  been  in  the  army  or  in  prison.  The  day  was 
half  gone,  and  it  was  a  far  fetch  to  Stepney.  And 
besides,  it  was  Sunday,  and  why  should  even  a 
starving  man  look  for  work  on  Sunday  ?  Further 
more,  it  was  my  judgment  that  I  had  done  a  hard 
night's  work  walking  the  streets,  and  a  hard  day's 
work  getting  my  breakfast ;  so  I  disconnected  my 
self  from  my  working  hypothesis  of  a  starving  young 
man  in  search  of  employment,  hailed  a  bus,  and 
climbed  aboard. 

After  a  shave  and  a  bath,  with  my  clothes  all  off, 
I  got  in  between  clean  white  sheets  and  went  to 
sleep.  It  was  six  in  the  evening  when  I  closed  my 
eyes.  When  they  opened  again,  the  clocks  were 
striking  nine  next  morning.  I  had  slept  fifteen 


THE   PEG  137 

straight  hours.  And  as  I  lay  there  drowsily,  my 
mind  went  back  to  the  seven  hundred  unfortunates 
I  had  left  waiting  for  services.  No  bath,  no  shave 
for  them,  no  clean  white  sheets  and  all  clothes  off, 
and  fifteen  hours  straight  sleep.  Services  over,  it 
was  the  weary  streets  again,  the  problem  of  a  crust 
of  bread  ere  night,  and  the  long  sleepless  night  in  the 
streets,  and  the  pondering  of  the  problem  of  how  to 
obtain  a  crust  at  dawn. 


CHAPTER    XII 

CORONATION    DAY 

O  thou  that  sea-walls  sever 
From  lands  unwalled  by  seas  ! 
Wilt  thou  endure  forever, 
O  Milton's  England,  these? 
Thou  that  wast  his  Republic, 
Wilt  thou  clasp  their  knees? 
These  royalties  rust-eaten, 
These  worm-corroded  lies 
That  keep  thy  head  storm-beaten, 
And  sun-like  strength  of  eyes 
From  the  open  air  and  heaven 
Of  intercepted  skies  ! 

—  SWINBURNE. 

VIVAT  Rex  Eduardus !  They  crowned  a  king  this 
day,  and  there  has  been  great  rejoicing  and  elabo 
rate  tomfoolery,  and  I  am  perplexed  and  saddened. 
I  never  saw  anything  to  compare  with  the  pageant, 
except  Yankee  circuses  and  Alhambra  ballets ;  nor 
did  I  ever  see  anything  so  hopeless  and  so  tragic. 

To  have  enjoyed  the  Coronation  procession,  I 
should  have  come  straight  from  America  to  the 
Hotel  Cecil,  and  straight  from  the  Hotel  Cecil  to  a 
five-guinea  seat  among  the  washed.  My  mistake 
was  in  coming  from  the  unwashed  of  the  East  End. 

138 


CORONATION    DAY 


139 


There  were  not  many  who  came  from  that  quarter. 
The  East  End,  as  a  whole,  remained  in  the  East 
End  and  got  drunk.  The  Socialists,  Democrats, 
and  Republicans  went  off  to  the  country  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air,  quite  unaffected  by  the  fact  that 
forty  millions  of  people  were  taking  to  themselves  a 


CORONATION  PROCESSION  PASSING  UP  ST.  JAMES  STREET. 

crowned  and  anointed  ruler.  Six  thousand  five 
hundred  prelates,  priests,  statesmen,  princes,  and 
warriors  beheld  the  crowning  and  anointing  and 
the  rest  of  us  the  pageant  as  it  passed. 

I  saw  it  at  Trafalgar  Square,  '  the  most  splendid 
site  in  Europe,'  and  the  very  uttermost  heart  of  the 


140  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

empire.  There  were  many  thousands  of  us,  all 
checked  and  held  in  order  by  a  superb  display  of 
armed  power.  The  line  of  march  was  double-walled 
with  soldiers.  The  base  of  the  Nelson  Column  was 
triple-fringed  with  blue-jackets.  Eastward,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  square,  stood  the  Royal  Marine 
Artillery.  In  the  triangle  of  Pall  Mall  and  Cock- 
spur,  the  statue  of  George  III  was  buttressed  on 
either  side  by  the  Lancers  and  Hussars.  To  the 
west  were  the  red  coats  of  the  Royal  Marines,  and 
from  the  Union  Club  to  the  embouchure  of  White 
hall  swept  the  glittering,  massive  curve  of  the  ist 
Life  Guards  —  gigantic  men  mounted  on  gigantic 
chargers,  steel-breastplated,  steel-helmeted,  steel- 
caparisoned,  a  great  war-sword  of  steel  ready  to  the 
hand  of  the  powers  that  be.  And  further,  through 
out  the  crowd,  were  flung  long  lines  of  the  Metro 
politan  Constabulary,  while  in  the  rear  were  the 
reserves  —  tall,  well-fed  men,  with  weapons  to  wield 
and  muscles  to  wield  them  in  case  of  need. 

And  as  it  was  thus  at  Trafalgar  Square,  so  was  it 
along  the  whole  line  of  march  —  force,  overpower 
ing  force  ;  myriads  of  men,  splendid  men,  the  pick 
of  the  people,  whose  sole  function  in  life  is  blindly 
to  obey,  and  blindly  to  kill  and  destroy  and  stamp 
out  life.  And  that  they  should  be  well  fed,  well 
clothed,  and  well  armed,  and  have  ships  to  hurl 
them  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  the  East  End  of 


CORONATION   DAY  141 

London,  and  the  '  East  End '  of  all  England,  toils 
and  rots  and  dies. 

There  is  a  Chinese  proverb  that  if  one  man  lives 
in  laziness  another  will  die  of  hunger;  and  Mon 
tesquieu  has  said,  "  The  fact  that  many  men  are 
occupied  in  making  clothes  for  one  individual  is 
the  cause  of  there  being  many  people  without 
clothes."  So  one  explains  the  other.  We  cannot 
understand  the  starved  and  runty  toiler  of  the  East 
End  (living  with  his  family  in  a  one-room  den,  and 
letting  out  the  floor  space  for  lodgings  to  other 
starved  and  runty  toilers)  till  we  look  at  the  strap 
ping  Life  Guardsmen  of  the  West  End,  and  come 
to  know  that  the  one  must  feed  and  clothe  and 
groom  the  other. 

And  while  in  Westminster  Abbey  the  people 
were  taking  unto  themselves  a  king,  I,  jammed 
between  the  Life  Guards  and  Constabulary  of  Tra 
falgar  Square,  was  dwelling  upon  the  time  when 
the  people  of  Israel  first  took  unto  themselves  a 
king.  You  all  know  how  it  runs.  The  elders 
came  to  the  Prophet  Samuel,  and  said  :  "  Make  us 
a  king  to  judge  us  like  all  the  nations." 

And  the  Lord  said  unto  Samuel :  Now  therefore  hearken 
unto  their  voice ;  howbeit  thou  shalt  show  them  the  man 
ner  of  the  king  that  shall  reign  over  them. 

And  Samuel  told  all  the  words  of  the  Lord  unto  the 
people  that  asked  of  him  a  king,  and  he  said : 


142  THE   PEOPLE  OF  THE   ABYSS 

This  will  be  the  manner  of  the  king  that  shall  reign 
over  you ;  he  will  take  your  sons,  and  appoint  them  unto 
him,  for  his  chariots,  and  to  be  his  horsemen,  and  they 
shall  run  before  his  chariots. 

And  he  will  appoint  them  unto  him  for  captains  of 
thousands,  and  captains  of  fifties;  and  he  will  set  some  to 
plough  his  ground,  and  to  reap  his  harvest,  and  to  make 
his  instruments  of  war,  and  the  instruments  of  his  chariots. 

And  he  will  take  your  daughters  to  be  confectionaries, 
and  to  be  cooks,  and  to  be  bakers. 

And  he  will  take  your  fields,  and  your  vineyards,  and 
your  oliveyards,  even  the  best  of  them,  and  give  them  to 
his  servants. 

And  he  will  take  a  tenth  of  your  seed,  and  of  your  vine 
yards,  and  give  to  his  officers,  and  to  his  servants. 

And  he  will  take  your  menservants,  and  your  maidser 
vants,  and  your  goodliest  young  men,  and  your  asses,  and 
put  them  to  his  work. 

He  will  take  a  tenth  of  your  flocks ;  and  ye  shall  be  his 
servants. 

And  ye  shall  call  out  in  that  day  because  of  your  king 
which  ye  shall  have  chosen  you ;  and  the  Lord  will  not 
answer  you  in  that  day. 

All  of  which  came  to  pass  in  that  ancient  day, 
and  they  did  cry  out  to  Samuel,  saying :  "  Pray  for 
thy  servants  unto  the  Lord  thy  God,  that  we  die 
not ;  for  we  have  added  unto  all  our  sins  this  evil, 
to  ask  us  a  king."  And  after  Saul  and  David 
came  Rehoboam,  who  "  answered  the  people  roughly, 
saying:  My  father  made  your  yoke  heavy,  but  I 
will  add  to  your  yoke  ;  my  father  chastised  you  with 
whips,  but  I  will  chastise  you  with  scorpions." 


CORONATION   DAY  143 

And  in  these  latter  days,  five  hundred  hereditary 
peers  own  one-fifth  of  England ;  and  they,  and  the 
officers  and  servants  under  the  King,  and  those 
who  go  to  compose  the  powers  that  be,  yearly  spend 
in  wasteful  luxury  $1,850,000,000,  which  is  thirty- 
two  per  cent  of  the  total  wealth  produced  by  all  the 
toilers  of  the  country. 

At  the  Abbey,  clad  in  wonderful  golden  raiment, 
amid  fanfare  of  trumpets  and  throbbing  of  music, 
surrounded  by  a  brilliant  throng  of  masters,  lords, 
and  rulers,  the  King  was  being  invested  with  the 
insisfhia  of  his  sovereignty.  The  spurs  were  placed 
to  his  heels  by  the  Lord  Great  Chamberlain,  and  a 
sword  of  state,  in  purple  scabbard,  was  presented 
him  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  with  these 
words :  — 

Receive  this  kingly  sword  brought  now  from  the  altar 
of  God,  and  delivered  to  you  by  the  hands  of  the  bishops 
and  servants  of  God,  though  unworthy. 

Whereupon,  being  girded,  he  gave  heed  to  the 
Archbishop's  exhortation :  — 

With  this  sword  do  justice,  stop  the  growth  of  iniquity, 
protect  the  Holy  Church  of  God,  help  and  defend  widows 
and  orphans,  restore  the  things  that  are  gone  to  decay, 
maintain  the  things  that  are  restored,  punish  and  reform 
what  is  amiss,  and  confirm  what  is  in  good  order. 


144  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

But  hark !  There  is  cheering  down  Whitehall ; 
the  crowd  sways,  the  double  walls  of  soldiers  come 
to  attention,  and  into  view  swing  the  King's  water 
men,  in  fantastic  mediaeval  garbs  of  red,  for  all  the 
world  like  the  van  of  a  circus  parade.  Then  a  royal 
carriage,  filled  with  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the 
household,  with  powdered  footmen  and  coachmen 
most  gorgeously  arrayed.  More  carnages,  lords, 
and  chamberlains,  viscounts,  mistresses  of  the  robes 
—  lackeys  all.  Then  the  warriors,  a  kingly  escort, 
generals,  bronzed  and  worn,  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth  come  up  to  London  Town ;  volunteer  officers, 
officers  of  the  militia  and  regular  forces  ;  Spens 
and  Plumer,  Broadwood  and  Cooper  who  relieved 
Ookiep,  Malthias  of  Dargai,  Dixon  of  Vlakfontein; 
General  Gaselee  and  Admiral  Seymour  of  China; 
Kitchener  of  Khartoum ;  Lord  Roberts  of  India 
and  all  the  world  —  the  fighting  men  of  England, 
masters  of  destruction,  engineers  of  death  !  Another 
race  of  men  from  those  of  the  shops  and  slums,  a 
totally  different  race  of  men. 

But  here  they  come,  in  all  the  pomp  and  certitude 
of  power,  and  still  they  come,  these  men  of  steel, 
these  war  lor;ds  and  world  harnessers.  Pell-mell, 
peers  and  commoners,  princes  and  maharajahs, 
Equerries  to  the  King  and  Yeomen  of  the  Guard. 
And  here  the  colonials,  lithe  and  hardy  men ;  and 
here  all  the  breeds  of  all  the  world  —  soldiers  from 


CORONATION   DAY 


145 


Canada,  Australia,  New  Zealand ;  from  Bermuda> 
Borneo,  Fiji,  and  the  Gold  Coast ;  from  Rhodesia, 
Cape  Colony,  Natal,  Sierra  Leone  and  Gambia, 
Nigeria,  and  Uganda ;  from  Ceylon,  Cyprus,  Hong- 
Kong,  Jamaica,  and  Wei-Hai-Wei ;  from  Lagos, 


THE  CORONATION  PROCESSION. 


Malta,  St.  Lucia,  Singapore,  Straits  Settlements, 
Trinidad.  And  here  the  conquered  men  of  Ind, 
swarthy  horsemen  and  sword  wielders,  fiercely  bar 
baric,  blazing  in  crimson  and  scarlet,  Sikhs,  Rajputs, 
Burmese,  province  by  province,  and  caste  by  caste. 


146         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

And  now  the  Horse  Guards,  a  glimpse  of  beauti 
ful  cream  ponies,  and  a  golden  panoply,  a  hurricane 
of  cheers,  the  crashing  of  bands  —  "  The  King  !  the 
King!  God  save  the  King!"  Everybody  has  gone 
mad.  The  contagion  is  sweeping  me  off  my  feet. 
I,  too,  want  to  shout,  "  The  King !  God  save  the 
King !  "  Ragged  men  about  me,  tears  in  their  eyes, 
are  tossing  up  their  hats  and  crying  ecstatically, 
"  Bless  'em  !  Bless  'em  !  Bless  'em  !  "  See,  there 
he  is,  in  that  wondrous  golden  coach,  the  great 
crown  flashing  on  his  head,  the  woman  in  white 
beside  him  likewise  crowned. 

And  I  check  myself  with  a  rush,  striving  to  con 
vince  myself  that  it  is  all  real  and  rational,  and  not 
some  glimpse  of  fairyland.  This  I  cannot  succeed 
in  doing,  and  it  is  better  so.  I  much  prefer  to  be 
lieve  that  all  this  pomp,  and  vanity,  and  show,  and 
mumbo-jumbo  foolery  has  come  from  fairyland,  than 
to  believe  it  the  performance  of  sane  and  sensible 
people  who  have  mastered  matter,  and  solved  the 
secrets  of  the  stars. 

Princes  and  princelings,  dukes,  duchesses,  and  all 
manner  of  coroneted  folk  of  the  royal  train  are 
flashing  past ;  more  warriors,  and  lackeys,  and  con 
quered  peoples,  and  the  pageant  is  over.  I  drift 
with  the  crowd  out  of  the  square  into  a  tangle  of 
narrow  streets,  where  the  public  houses  are  a-roar 
with  drunkenness,  men,  women,  and  children  mixed 


CORONATION  DAY  147 

together  in  colossal  debauch.     And  on  every  side  is 
rising  the  favorite  song  of  the  Coronation :  — 

Oh  !  on  Coronation  Day,  on  Coronation  Day, 
We'll  have  a  spree,  a  jubilee,  and  shout,  Hip,  hip,  hooray, 
For  we'll  all  be  merry,  drinking  whiskey,  wine,  and  sherry, 
We'll  be  merry  on  Coronation  Day. 

The  rain  is  pouring  down  in  torrents.  Up  the 
street  come  troops  of  the  auxiliaries,  black  Afri 
cans  and  yellow  Asiatics,  beturbaned  and  befezed, 
and  coolies  swinging  along  with  machine  guns  and 
mountain  batteries  on  their  heads,  and  the  bare  feet 
of  all,  in  quick  rhythm,  going  slish,  slisk,  slish 
through  the  pavement  mud.  The  public  houses 
empty  by  magic,  and  the  swarthy  allegiants  are 
cheered  by  their  British  brothers,  who  return  at 
once  to  the  carouse. 

"  And  how  did  you  like  the  procession,  mate  ?  "  I 
asked  an  old  man  on  a  bench  in  Green  Park. 

"  'Ow  did  I  like  it  ?  A  bloody  good  chawnce,  sez 
I  to  myself,  for  a  sleep,  wi'  all  the  coppers  a\v'y,  so 
I  turned  into  the  corner  there,  along  wi'  fifty  others. 
But  I  couldn't  sleep,  a-lyin'  there  'ungry  an'  thinkin' 
'ow  I'd  worked  all  the  years  o'  my  life  an'  now  'ad 
no  plyce  to  rest  my  'ead ;  an'  the  music  comin'  to 
me,  an'  the  cheers  an'  cannon,  till  I  got  almost  a 
hanarchist  an'  wanted  to  blow  out  the  brains  o'  the 
Lord  Chamberlain." 


148  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

Why  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  I  could  not  precisely 
see,  nor  could  he,  but  that  was  the  way  he  felt, 
he  said  conclusively,  and  there  was  no  more  dis 
cussion. 

As  night  drew  on,  the  city  became  a  blaze  of 
light.  Splashes  of  color,  green,  amber,  and  ruby, 
caught  the  eye  at  every  point,  and  "  E.  R.,"  in  great 
cut-crystal  letters  and  backed  by  flaming  gas,  was 
everywhere.  The  crowds  in  the  streets  increased 
by  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  though  the  police 
sternly  put  down  mafficking,  drunkenness  and  rough 
play  abounded.  The  tired  workers  seemed  to  have 
gone  mad  with  the  relaxation  and  excitement,  and 
they  surged  and  danced  down  the  streets,  men  and 
women,  old  and  young,  with  linked  arms  and  in 
long  rows,  singing,  "  I  may  be  crazy,  but  I  love 
you,"  "  Dolly  Gray,"  and  "  The  Honeysuckle  and  the 
Bee,"  —  the  last  rendered  something  like  this :  — 

Yew  aw  the  enny,  ennyseckle,  Oi  em  ther  bee, 

Oi'd  like  ter  sip  ther  enny  from  those  red  lips,  yew  see. 

I  sat  on  a  bench  on  the  Thames  Embankment, 
looking  across  the  illuminated  water.  It  was  ap 
proaching  midnight,  and  before  me  poured  the  bet 
ter  class  of  merrymakers,  shunning  the  more  riotous 
streets  and  returning  home.  On  the  bench  beside 
me  sat  two  ragged  creatures,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
nodding  and  dozing.  The  woman  sat  with  her 


CORONATION   DAY 


149 


arms  clasped  across  the  breast,  holding  tightly,  her 
body  in  constant  play,  —  now  dropping  forward  till 
it  seemed  its  balance  would  be  overcome  and  she 
would  fall  to  the  pavement;  now  inclining  to  the 
left,  sideways,  till  her  head  rested  on  the  man's 


THE  EVENING  OF  CORONATION  DAY. 
The  illuminations  from  the  Thames  Embankment. 


shoulder;  and  now  to  the  right,  stretched  and 
strained,  till  the  pain  of  it  awoke  her  and  she  sat 
bolt  upright.  Whereupon  the  dropping  forward 
would  begin  again  and  go  through  its  cycle  till  she 
was  aroused  by  the  strain  and  stretch. 

Every  little  while,  boys  and  young  men  stopped 


150  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

long  enough  to  go  behind  the  bench  and  give  vent 
to  sudden  and  fiendish  shouts.  This  always  jerked 
the  man  and  woman  abruptly  from  their  sleep ;  and 
at  sight  of  the  startled  woe  upon  their  faces 
the  crowd  would  roar  with  laughter  as  it  flooded 
past. 

This  was  the  most  striking  thing,  the  general 
heartlessness  exhibited  on  every  hand.  It  is  a  com 
monplace,  the  homeless  on  the  benches,  the  poor 
miserable  folk  who  may  be  teased  and  are  harmless. 
Fifty  thousand  people  must  have  passed  the  bench 
while  I  sat  upon  it,  and  not  one,  on  such  a  jubilee 
occasion  as  the  crowning  of  the  King,  felt  his  heart 
strings  touched  sufficiently  to  come  up  and  say  to 
the  woman :  "  Here's  sixpence ;  go  and  get  a  bed." 
But  the  women,  especially  the  young  women,  made 
witty  remarks  upon  the  woman  nodding,  and  invaria 
bly  set  their  companions  laughing. 

To  use  a  Briticism,  it  was  'cruel';  the  corre 
sponding  Americanism  was  more  appropriate  —  it 
was  '  fierce.'  I  confess  I  began  to  grow  incensed 
at  this  happy  crowd  streaming  by,  and  to  extract  a 
sort  of  satisfaction  from  the  London  statistics  which 
demonstrate  that  one  in  every  four  adults  is  destined 
to  die  on  public  charity,  either  in  the  workhouse, 
the  infirmary,  or  the  asylum. 

I  talked  with  the  man.  He  was  fifty-four  and  a 
broken-down  docker.  He  could  only  find  odd  work 


CORONATION    DAY  151 

when  there  was  a  large  demand  for  labor,  for  the 
younger  and  stronger  men  were  preferred  when 
times  were  slack.  He  had  spent  a  week,  now,  on 
the  benches  of  the  Embankment ;  but  things  looked 
brighter  for  next  week,  and  he  might  possibly  get 
in  a  few  days'  work  and  have  a  bed  in  some  doss- 
house.  He  had  lived  all  his  life  in  London,  save 
for  five  years,  when,  in  1878,  he  saw  foreign  service 
in  India. 

Of  course  he  would  eat ;  so  would  the  girl.  Days 
like  this  were  uncommon  hard  on  such  as  they, 
though  the  coppers  were  so  busy  poor  folk  could 
get  in  more  sleep.  I  awoke  the  girl,  or  woman 
rather,  for  she  was  "  Eyght  an'  twenty,  sir " ;  and 
we  started  for  a  coffee-house. 

"Wot  a  lot  o'  work,  puttin'  up  the  lights,"  said 
the  man  at  sight  of  some  building  superbly  illumi 
nated.  This  was  the  keynote  of  his  being.  All 
his  life  he  had  worked,  and  the  whole  objective 
universe,  as  well  as  his  own  soul,  he  could  express 
in  terms  only  of  work.  "  Coronations  is  some  good," 
he  went  on.  "  They  give  work  to  men." 

"  But  your  belly  is  empty,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  I  tried,  but  there  wasn't 
any  chawnce.  My  age  is  against  me.  Wot  do  you 
work  at  ?  Seafarin'  chap,  eh  ?  I  knew  it  from 
yer  clothes." 

"  I  know  wot  you  are,"  said  the  girl,  "  an  Eye- 
talian." 


152  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

"  No  'e  ayn't,"  the  man  cried  heatedly.  "  'E's  a 
Yank,  that's  wot  'e  is.  I  know." 

"  Lord  lumme,  look  a'  that,"  she  exclaimed,  as 
we  debouched  upon  the  Strand,  choked  with  the 
roaring,  reeling  Coronation  crowd,  the  men  bellow 
ing  and  the  girls  singing  in  high  throaty  notes :  — 

Oh  !  on  Coronation  D'y,  on  Coronation  D'y, 
We'll  'ave  a  spree,  a  jubilee,  an'  shout  'Ip,  'ip,  'ooray. 
For  we'll  all  be  merry,  drinkin'  whiskey,  wine,  and  sherry, 
We'll  be  merry  on  Coronation  D'y. 

"  'Ow  dirty  I  am,  bein'  around  the  w'y  I  'ave,"  the 
woman  said,  as  she  sat  down  in  a  coffee-house, 
wiping  the  sleep  and  grime  from  the  corners  of  her 
eyes.  "  An'  the  sights  I  'ave  seen  this  d'y,  an'  I 
enjoyed  it,  though  it  was  lonesome  by  myself.  An' 
the  duchesses  an'  the  lydies  'ad  sich  gran'  w'ite 
dresses.  They  was  jest  bu'ful,  bu'ful." 

"  I'm  Irish,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  a  question. 
"  My  nyme's  Eyethorne." 

"  What  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Eyethorne,  sir ;  Eyethorne." 

"  Spell  it." 

"  H-a-y-t-h-o-r-n-e,  Eyethorne." 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  Irish  Cockney." 

"  Yes,  sir,  London-born." 

She  had  lived  happily  at  home  till  her  father 
died,  killed  in  accident,  when  she  had  found  her- 


CORONATION   DAY  153 

self  on  the  world.  One  brother  was  in  the  army, 
and  the  other  brother,  engaged  in  keeping  a  wife 
and  eight  children  on  twenty  shillings  a  week  and 
unsteady  employment,  could  do  nothing  for  her. 
She  had  been  out  of  London  once  in  her  life,  to  a 
place  in  Essex,  twelve  miles  away,  where  she  had 
picked  fruit  for  three  weeks  —  "  An'  I  was  as  brown 
as  a  berry  w'en  I  come  back.  You  won't  b'lieve 
it,  but  I  was." 

The  last  place  in  which  she  had  worked  was  a 
coffee-house,  hours  from  seven  in  the  morning  till 
eleven  at  night,  and  for  which  she  had  received 
five  shillings  a  week  and  her  food.  Then  she  had 
fallen  sick,  and  since  emerging  from  the  hospital 
had  been  unable  to  find  anything  to  do.  She 
wasn't  feeling  up  to  much,  and  the  last  two  nights 
had  been  spent  in  the  street. 

Between  them  they  stowed  away  a  prodigious 
amount  of  food,  this  man  and  woman,  and  it  was  not 
till  I  had  duplicated  and  triplicated  their  original 
orders  that  they  showed  signs  of  easing  down. 

Once  she  reached  across  and  felt  the  texture  of 
my  coat  and  shirt,  and  remarked  upon  the  good 
clothes  the  Yanks  wore.  My  rags  good  clothes  !  It 
put  me  to  the  blush ;  but,  on  inspecting  them  more 
closely  and  on  examining  the  clothes  worn  by  the 
man  and  woman,  I  began  to  feel  quite  well-dressed 
and  respectable. 


154  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  do  in  the  end  ? "  I 
asked  them.  "  You  know  you're  growing  older 
every  day." 

"Work'ouse,"  said  he. 

"  Gawd  blimey  if  I  do,"  said  she.  "  There's  no 
'ope  for  me,  I  know,  but  I'll  die  on  the  streets.  No 
work'ouse  for  me,  thank  you." 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  sniffed  in  the  silence  that  fell. 

"  After  you  have  been  out  all  night  in  the  streets," 
I  asked,  "  what  do  you  do  in  the  morning  for  some 
thing  to  eat  ?  " 

"  Try  to  get  a  penny,  if  you  'aven't  one  saved 
over,"  the  man  explained.  "  Then  go  to  a  coffee- 
'ouse  an'  get  a  mug  o'  tea." 

"  But  I  don't  see  how  that  is  to  feed  you,"  I 
objected. 

The  pair  smiled  knowingly. 

"  You  drink  your  tea  in  little  sips,"  he  went  on, 
"  making  it  last  its  longest.  An'  you  look  sharp, 
an'  there's  some  as  leaves  a  bit  be'ind  'em." 

"  It's  s'prisin',  the  food  wot  some  people  leaves," 
the  woman  broke  in. 

"  The  thing,"  said  the  man  judicially,  as  the 
trick  dawned  upon  me,  "  is  to  get  'old  o'  the  penny." 

As  we  started  to  leave,  Miss  Haythorne  gathered 
up  a  couple  of  crusts  from  the  neighboring  tables 
and  thrust  them  somewhere  into  her  rags. 

"  Cawn't  wyste  'em,  you  know,"  said  she,  to  which 


CORONATION   DAY 


155 


the  docker  nodded,  tucking  away  a  couple  of  crusts 
himself. 

At  three  in  the  morning  I  strolled  up  the  Em 
bankment.  It  was  a  gala  night  for  the  homeless, 
for  the  police  were  elsewhere ;  and  each  bench  was 
jammed  with  sleeping  occupants.  There  were  as 


Ox  THE  EMBANKMENT  AT  THREE  IN  THE  MORNING. 

many  women  as  men,  and  the  great  majority  of 
them,  male  and  female,  were  old.  Occasionally  a 
boy  was  to  be  seen.  On  one  bench  I  noticed  a 
family,  a  man  sitting  upright  with  a  sleeping 
babe  in  his  arms,  his  wife  asleep,  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  in  her  lap  the  head  of  a  sleeping 
youngster.  The  man's  eyes  were  wide  open.  He 
was  staring  out  over  the  water  and  thinking,  which 
is  not  a  good  thing  for  a  shelterless  man  with  a 


156         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

family  to  do.  It  would  not  be  a  pleasant  thing 
to  speculate  upon  his  thoughts  ;  but  this  I  know, 
and  all  London  knows,  that  the  cases  of  out-of- 
works  killing  their  wives  and  babies  is  not  an  un 
common  happening. 

One  cannot  walk  along  the  Thames  Embank 
ment,  in  the  small  hours  of  morning,  from  the 
Houses  of  Parliament,  past  Cleopatra's  Needle,  to 
Waterloo  Bridge,  without  being  reminded  of  the 
sufferings,  seven  and  twenty  centuries  old,  recited 
by  the  author  of  '  Job  ' :  — 

There  are  that  remove  the  landmarks  ;  they  violently 
take  away  flocks  and  feed  them. 

They  drive  away  the  ass  of  the  fatherless,  they  take  the 
widow's  ox  for  a  pledge. 

They  turn  the  needy  out  of  the  way ;  the  poor  of  the 
earth  hide  themselves  together. 

Behold,  as  wild  asses  in  the  desert  they  go  forth  to  their 
work,  seeking  diligently  for  meat;  the  wilderness  yieldeth 
them  food  for  their  children. 

They  cut  their  provender  in  the  field,  and  they  glean 
the  vintage  of  the  wicked. 

They  lie  all  night  naked  without  clothing,  and  have  no 
covering  in  the  cold. 

They  are  wet  with  the  showers  of  the  mountains,  and 
embrace  the  rock  for  want  of  a  shelter. 

There  are  that  pluck  the  fatherless  from  the  breast,  and 
take  a  pledge  of  the  poor. 

So  that  they  go  about  naked  without  clothing,  and  being 
an  hungered  they  carry  the  sheaves. — Job  xxiv.  2-10. 


CORONATION   DAY  157 

Seven  and  twenty  centuries  agone !  And  it  is 
all  as  true  and  apposite  to-day  in  the  innermost 
centre  of  this  Christian  civilization  whereof  Edward 
VII  is  king. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

DAN    CULLEN,    DOCKER 

Life  scarce  can  tread  majestically 
Foul  court  and  fever-stricken  alley. 

—  THOMAS  ASHE. 

I  STOOD,  yesterday,  in  a  room  in  one  of  the 
'  Municipal  Dwellings,'  not  far  from  Leman  Street. 
If  I  looked  into  a  dreary  future  and  saw  that  I 
would  have  to  live  in  such  a  room  until  I  died,  I 
should  immediately  go  down,  plump  into  the 
Thames,  and  cut  the  tenancy  short. 

It  was  not  a  room.  Courtesy  to  the  language 
will  no  more  permit  it  to  be  called  a  room  than  it 
will  permit  a  hovel  to  be  called  a  mansion.  It  was 
a  den,  a  lair.  Seven  feet  by  eight  were  its  dimen 
sions,  and  the  ceiling  was  so  low  as  not  to  give  the 
cubic  air  space  required  by  a  British  soldier  in  bar 
racks.  A  crazy  couch,  with  ragged  coverlets, 
occupied  nearly  half  the  room.  A  rickety  table,  a 
chair,  and  a  couple  of  boxes  left  little  space  in 
which  to  turn  around.  Five  dollars  would  have 
purchased  everything  in  sight.  The  floor  was 
bare,  while  the  walls  and  ceiling  were  literally  cov 
ered  with  blood  marks  and  splotches.  Each  mark 

'58 


THE  MUNICIPAL  DWELLINGS,  NOT  FAR  FROM  LEMAN  STREET. 


DAN    CULLEN,  DOCKER  159 

represented  a  violent  death  —  of  a  bedbug,  with 
which  vermin  the  building  swarmed,  a  plague  with 
which  no  person  could  cope  single-handed. 

The  man  who  had  occupied  this  hole,  one  Dan 
Cullen,  docker,  was  dying  in  hospital.  Yet  he  had 
impressed  his  personality  on  his  miserable  sur 
roundings  sufficiently  to  give  an  inkling  as  to  what 
sort  of  a  man  he  was.  On  the  walls  were  cheap 
pictures  of  Garibaldi,  Engels,  Dan  Burns,  and 
other  labor  leaders,  while  on  the  table  lay  one  of 
Walter  Besant's  novels.  He  knew  his  Shake- 
speare^  I  was  told,  and  had  read  history,  sociology, 
and  economics.  And  he  was  self-educated. 

On  the  table,  amidst  a  wonderful  disarray,  lay 
a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  was  scrawled :  Mr.  Cul 
len,  please  return  the  large  white  jug  and  corkscrew 
I  lent  you,  —  articles  loaned,  during  the  first  stages 
of  his  sickness,  by  a  woman  neighbor,  and  de 
manded  back  in  anticipation  of  his  death.  A  large 
white  jug  and  a  corkscrew  are  far  too  valuable  to 
a  creature  of  the  Abyss  to  permit  another  creature 
to  die  in  peace.  To  the  last,  Dan  Cullen's  soul 
must  be  harrowed  by  the  sordidness  out  of  which 
it  strove  vainly  to  rise. 

It  is  a  brief  little  story,  the  story  of  Dan  Cullen, 
but  there  is  much  to  read  between  the  lines.  He 
was  born  lowly  in  a  city  and  land  where  the  lines 
of  caste  are  tightly  drawn.  All  his  days  he  toiled 


160  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

hard  with  his  body ;  and  because  he  had  opened 
the  books,  and  been  caught  up  by  the  fires  of  the 
spirit,  and  could  '  write  a  letter  like  a  lawyer,'  he 
had  been  selected  by  his  fellows  to  toil  hard  for 
them  with  his  brain.  .  He  became  a  leader  of  the 
fruit-porters,  represented  the  dockers  on  the  Lon 
don  Trades  Council,  and  wrote  trenchant  articles 
for  the  labor  journals. 

He  did  not  cringe  to  other  men,  even  though 
they  were  his  economic  masters  and  controlled  the 
means  whereby  he  lived,  and  he  spoke  his  mind, 
freely,  and  fought  the  good  fight.  In  the  '  Great 
Dock  Strike '  he  was  guilty  of  taking  a  leading  part. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  Dan  Cullen.  From  that  day 
he  was  a  marked  man,  a,nd  every  day,  for  ten  years 
and  more,  he  was  '  paid  off '  for  what  he  had  done. 

A  docker  is  a  casual  laborer.  Work  ebbs  and 
flows,  and  he  works  or  does  not  work  according  to 
the  amount  of  goods  on  hand  to  be  moved,  Dan 
Cullen  was  discriminated  against.  While  he  was 

O 

not  absolutely  turned  away  (which  would  have 
caused  trouble,  and  which  would  certainly  have 
been  more  merciful),  he  was  called  in  by  the  fore 
man  to  do  not  more  than  two  or  three  days'  work 
per  week.  This  is  what  is  called  being  '  disci 
plined,'  or  '  drilled.'  It  means  being  starved. 
There  is  no  politer  word.  Ten  years  of  it  broke 
his  heart,  and  broken-hearted  men  cannot  live. 


DAN   CULLEN,  DOCKER  l6l 

He  took  to  his  bed  in  his  terrible  den,  which 
grew  more  terrible  with  his  helplessness.  He  was 
without  kith  or  kin,  a  lonely  old  man,  embittered 
and  pessimistic,  fighting  vermin  the  while  and  look 
ing  at  Garibaldi,  Engels,  and  Dan  Burns  gazing 
down  at  him  from  the  blood-bespattered  walls. 
No  one  came  to  see  him  in  that  crowded  munici 
pal  barracks  (he  had  made  friends  with  none  of 
them),  and  he  was  left  to  rot. 

But  from  the  far-reaches  of  the  East  End  came 
a  cobbler  and  his  son,  his  sole  friends.  They 
cleansed  his  room,  brought  fresh  linen  from  home, 
and  took  from  off  his  limbs  the  sheets,  grayish- 
black  with  dirt.  And  they  brought  to  him  one  of 
the  Queen's  Bounty  nurses  from  Aldgate. 

She  washed  his  face,  shook  up  his  couch,  and 
talked  with  him.  It  was  interesting  to  talk  with 
him  —  until  he  learned  her  name.  Oh,  yes,  Blank 
was  her  name,  she  replied  innocently,  and  Sir 
George  Blank  was  her  brother.  Sir  George  Blank, 
eh  ?  thundered  old  Dan  Cullen  on  his  death-bed ; 
Sir  George  Blank,  solicitor  to  the  docks  at  Cardiff, 
who,  more  than  any  other  man,  had  broken  up  the 
Docker's  Union  of  Cardiff,  and  was  knighted  ? 
And  she  was  his  sister?  Thereupon  Dan  Cullen 
sat  up  on  his  crazy  couch  and  pronounced  anathema 
upon  her  and  all  her  breed ;  and  she  fled,  to  return 
no  more,  strongly  impressed  with  the  ungrateful 
ness  of  the  poor. 


162         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

Dan  Cullen's  feet  became  swollen  with  dropsy. 
He  sat  up  all  day  on  the  side  of  the  bed  (to  keep 
the  water  out  of  his  body),  no  mat  on  the  floor,  a 
thin  blanket  on  his  legs,  and  an  old  coat  around  his 
shoulders.  A  missionary  brought  him  a  pair  of 
paper  slippers,  worth  fourpence  (I  saw  them),  and 
proceeded  to  offer  up  fifty  prayers  or  so  for  the 
good  of  Dan  Cullen's  soul.  But  Dan  Cullen  was 
the  sort  of  a  man  that  wanted  his  soul  left  alone. 
He  did  not  care  to  have  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry,  on 
the  strength  of  fourpenny  slippers,  tampering  with 
it.  He  asked  the  missionary  kindly  to  open  the 
window,  so  that  he  might  toss  the  slippers  out. 
And  the  missionary  went  away,  to  return  no  more, 
likewise  impressed  with  the  ungratefulness  of  the 
poor. 

The  cobbler,  a  brave  old  hero  himself,  though  un- 
annaled  and  unsung,  went  privily  to  the  head  office 
of  the  big  fruit  brokers  for  whom  Dan  Cullen  had 
worked  as  a  casual  laborer  for  thirty  years.  Their 
system  was  such  that  the  work  was  almost  entirely 
done  by  casual  hands.  The  cobbler  told  them  the 
man's  desperate  plight,  old,  broken,  dying,  without 
help  or  money,  reminded  them  that  he  had  worked 
for  them  thirty  years,  and  asked  them  to  do  some 
thing  for  him. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  manager,  remembering  Dan  Cul 
len  without  having  to  refer  to  the  books,  "  you  see, 


DAN   CULLEN,  DOCKER 


163 


we  make  it  a  rule  never  to  help  casuals,  and  we  can 
do  nothing." 

Nor  did  they  do  anything,  not  even  sign  a  letter 
asking  for  Dan  Cullen's  admission  to  a  hospital. 
And  it  is  not  so  easy  to  get  into  a  hospital  in  Lon 
don  Town.  At  Hamstead,  if  he  passed  the  doctors, 


LONDON  HOSPITAL,  MILE  END  ROAD. 

at  least  four  months  would  elapse  before  he  could 
get  in,  there  were  so  many  on  the  books  ahead  of 
him.  The  cobbler  finally  got  him  into  the  White- 
chapel  Infirmary,  where  he  visited  him  frequently. 
Here  he  found  that  Dan  Cullen  had  succumbed  to 
the  prevalent  feeling,  that,  being  hopeless,  they  were 
hurrying  him  out  of  the  way.  A  fair  and  logical 


1 64 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 


conclusion,  one  must  agree,  for  an  old  and  broken 
man  to  arrive  at,  who  has  been  resolutely  '  disci 
plined  '  and  '  drilled '  for  ten  years.  When  they 
sweated  him  for  B right's  disease  to  remove  the  fat 
from  the  kidneys,  Dan  Cullen  contended  that  the 
sweating  was  hastening  his  death ;  while  Bright's 


ONE  OF  THE  WARDS  IN  WHITECHAPEL  INFIRMARY. 

disease,  being  a  wasting  away  of  the  kidneys,  there 
was  therefore  no  fat  to  remove  and  the  doctor's 
excuse  was  a  palpable  lie.  Whereupon  the  doctor 
became  wroth,  and  did  not  come  near  him  for  nine 
days. 

Then  his  bed  was  tilted  up  so  that  his  feet  and 
legs  were  elevated.     At  once  dropsy  appeared  in  the 


DAN   CULLEN,   DOCKER 


I65 


body,  and  Dan  Cullen  contended  that  the  thing  was 
done  in  order  to  run  the  water  down  into  his  body 
from  his  legs  and  kill  him  more  quickly.  He  de 
manded  his  discharge,  though  they  told  him  he 
would  die  on  the  stairs,  and  dragged  himself  more 
dead  than  alive  to  the  cobbler's  shop.  At  the  moment 


THE  TEMPERANCE  HOSPITAL 


of  writing  this,  he  is  dying  at  the  Temperance  Hos 
pital,  into  which  place  his  stanch  friend,  the  cob 
bler,  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  have  him  admitted. 
Poor  Dan  Cullen !  A  Jude  the  Obscure,  who 
reached  out  after  knowledge ;  who  toiled  with  his 
body  in  the  day  and  studied  in  the  watches  of  the 


166         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

night ;  who  dreamed  his  dream  and  struck  valiantly 
for  the  Cause ;  a  patriot,  a  lover  of  human  freedom, 
and  a  fighter  unafraid ;  and  in  the  end,  not  gigantic 
enough  to  beat  down  the  conditions  which  baffled 
and  stifled  him,  a  cynic  and  a  pessimist,  gasping  his 
final  agony  on  a  pauper's  couch  in  a  charity  ward.  — 
"  For  a  man  to  have  died  who  might  have  been  wise 
and  was  not,  this  I  call  a  tragedy." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

HOPS    AND    HOPPERS 

111  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade, 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  is  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

—  GOLDSMITH. 

So  far  has  the  divorcement  of  the  worker  from 
the  soil  proceeded,  that  the  farming  districts,  the 
civilized  world  over,  are  dependent  upon  the  cities 
for  the  gathering  of  the  harvests.  Then  it  is,  when 
the  land  is  spilling  its  ripe  wealth  to  waste,  that  the 
street  folk,  who  have  been  driven  away  from  the 
soil,  are  called  back  to  it  again.  But  in  England 
they  return,  not  as  prodigals,  but  as  outcasts  still,  as 
vagrants  and  pariahs,  to  be  doubted  and  flouted  by 
their  country  brethren,  to  sleep  in  jails  and  casual 
wards,  or  under  the  hedges,  and  to  live  the  Lord 
knows  how. 

It  is  estimated  that  Kent  alone  requires  eighty 
thousand  of  the  street  people  to  pick  her  hops.  And 
out  they  come,  obedient  to  the  call,  which  is  the  call 

167 


1 68  THE  PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

of  their  bellies  and  of  the  lingering  dregs  of  adven 
ture-lust  still  in  them.  Slum,  stews,  and  ghetto 
pour  them  forth,  and  the  festering  contents  of  slum, 
stews,  and  ghetto  are  undiminished.  Yet  they  over 
run  the  country  like  an  army  of  ghouls,  and  the 
country  does  not  want  them.  They  are  out  of 
place.  As  they  drag  their  squat,  misshapen  bodies 
along  the  highways  and  byways,  they  resemble  some 
vile  spawn  from  underground.  Their  very  presence, 
the  fact  of  their  existence,  is  an  outrage  to  the  fresh 
bright  sun  and  the  green  and  growing  things.  The 
clean,  up-standing  trees  cry  shame  upon  them  and 
their  withered  crookedness,  and  their  rottenness  is 
a  slimy  desecration  of  the  sweetness  and  purity  of 
nature. 

Is  the  picture  overdrawn  ?  It  all  depends.  For 
one  who  sees  and  thinks  life  in  terms  of  shares  and 
coupons,  it  is  certainly  overdrawn.  But  for  one 
who  sees  and  thinks  life  in  terms  of  manhood  and 
womanhood,  it  cannot  be  overdrawn.  Such  hordes 
of  beastly  wretchedness  and  inarticulate  misery  are 
no  compensation  for  a  millionnaire  brewer  who  lives 
in  a  West  End  palace,  sates  himself  with  the  sensu 
ous  delights  of  London's  golden  theatres,  hobnobs 
with  lordlings  and  princelings,  and  is  knighted  by 
the  king.  Wins  his  spurs  —  God  forbid!  In  old 
time  the  great  blonde  beasts  rode  in  the  battle's  van 
and  won  their  spurs  by  cleaving  men  from  pate  to 


HOPS   AND    HOPPERS  169 

chine.  And,  after  all,  it  is  far  finer  to  kill  a  strong 
man  with  a  clean-slicing  blow  of  singing  steel  than 
to  make  a  beast  of  him,  and  of  his  seed  through  the 
generations,  by  the  artful  and  spidery  manipulation 
of  industry  and  politics. 

But  to  return  to  the  hops.  Here  the  divorcement 
from  the  soil  is  as  apparent  as  in  every  other  agri 
cultural  line  in  England.  While  the  manufacture 
of  beer  steadily  increases,  the  growth  of  hops 
steadily  decreases.  In  1835  the  acreage  under 
hops  was  71,327.  To-day  it  stands  at  48,024,  a 
decreaie  of  3103  from  the  acreage  of  last  year. 

Small  as  the  acreage  is  this  year,  a  poor  summer 
and  terrible  storms  reduced  the  yield.  This  mis 
fortune  is  divided  between  the  people  who  own 
hops  and  the  people  who  pick  hops.  The  owners 
perforce  must  put  up  with  less  of  the  nicer  things 
of  life,  the  pickers  with  less  grub,  of  which,  in  the 
best  of  times,  they  never  get  enough.  For  weary 
weeks  headlines  like  the  following  have  appeared  in 
the  London  papers :  — 

TRAMPS     PLENTIFUL,     BUT     THE     HOPS     ARE     FEW     AND 
NOT    YET     READY. 

Then  there  have  been  numberless  paragraphs 
like  this  :  — 

From  the  neighborhood  of  the  hop  fields  comes  news  of 
a  distressing  nature.  The  bright  outburst  of  the  last  two 


I/O         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

days  has  sent  many  hundreds  of  hoppers  into  Kent,  who 
will  have  to  wait  till  the  fields  are  ready  for  them.  At 
Dover  the  number  of  vagrants  in  the  workhouse  is  treble 
the  number  there  last  year  at  this  time,  and  in  other  towns 
the  lateness  of  the  season  is  responsible  for  a  large  increase 
in  the  number  of  casuals. 

To  cap  their  wretchedness,  when  at  last  the  pick 
ing  had  begun,  hops  and  hoppers  were  well-nigh 
swept  away  by  a  frightful  storm  of  wind,  rain,  and 
hail.  The  hops  were  stripped  clean  from  the  poles 
and  pounded  into  the  earth,  while  the  hoppers,  seek 
ing  shelter  from  the  stinging  hail,  were  close  to 
drowning  in  their  huts  and  camps  on  the  low-lying 
ground.  Their  condition  after  the  storm  was  pitia 
ble,  their  state  of  vagrancy  more  pronounced  than 
ever;  for,  poor  crop  that  it  was,  its  destruction  had 
taken  away  the  chance  of  earning  a  few  pennies, 
and  nothing  remained  for  thousands  of  them  but  to 
'  pad  the  hoof '  back  to  London. 

"  We  ayn't  crossin'-sweepers,"  they  said,  turning 
away  from  the  ground,  carpeted  ankle-deep  with 
hops. 

Those  that  remained  grumbled  savagely  among 
the  half-stripped  poles  at  the  seven  bushels  for  a 
shilling  —  a  rate  paid  in  good  seasons  when  the 
hops  are  in  prime  condition,  and  a  rate  likewise 
paid  in  bad  seasons  by  the  growers  because  they 
cannot  afford  more. 


HOPS   AND   HOPPERS  I /I 

I  passed  through  Teston  and  East  and  West 
Farleigh  shortly  after  the  storm,  and  listened  to 
the  grumbling  of  the  hoppers  and  saw  the  hops 
rotting  on  the  ground.  At  the  hothouses  of  Bar- 
ham  Court,  thirty  thousand  panes  of  glass  had  been 
broken  by  the  hail,  while  peaches,  plums,  pears, 
apples,  rhubarb,  cabbages,  mangolds,  —  everything, 
had  been  pounded  to  pieces  and  torn  to  shreds. 

All  of  which  was  too  bad  for  the  owners,  cer 
tainly  ;  but  at  the  worst,  not  one  of  them,  for  one 
meal,  would  have  to  go  short  of  food  or  drink.  Yet 
it  was  to  them  that  the  newspapers  devoted  columns 
of  sympathy,  their  pecuniary  losses  being  detailed 
at  harrowing  length.  "  Mr.  Herbert  Leney  calcu 
lates  his  loss  at  ^"8000 ;  "  "  Mr.  Fremlin,  of  brewery 
fame,  who  rents  all  the  land  in  this  parish,  loses 
;£io,ooo;"  and  "Mr.  Leney,  the  Wateringbury 
brewer,  brother  to  Mr.  Herbert  Leney,  is  another 
heavy  loser."  As  for  the  hoppers,  they  did  not 
count.  Yet  I  venture  to  assert  that  the  several 
almost  square  meals  lost  by  underfed  William 
Buggies,  and  underfed  Mrs.  Buggies,  and  the 
underfed  Buggies  kiddies,  was  a  greater  tragedy 
than  the  ,£10,000  lost  by  Mr.  Fremlin.  And  in 
addition,  underfed  William  Buggies'  tragedy  might 
be  multiplied  by  thousands  where  Mr.  Fremlin's 
could  not  be  multiplied  by  five. 

To  see  how  William  Buggies  and  his  kind  fared, 


1/2 


THE  PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 


I  donned  my  seafaring  togs  and  started  out  to 
get  a  job.  With  me  was  a  young  East  London 
cobbler,  Bert,  who  had  yielded  to  the  lure  of 
adventure  and  joined  me  for  the  trip.  Acting  on 
my  advice,  he  had  brought  his  '  worst  rags,'  and 


BERT  AND  THK  AUTHOR  READY  TO  PICK  HOPS. 

as  we  hiked  up  the  London  Road  out  of  Maid- 
stone  he  was  worrying  greatly  for  fear  we  had 
come  too  ill-dressed  for  the  business. 

Nor  was  he  to  be  blamed.  When  we  stopped  in 
a  tavern  the  publican  eyed  us  gingerly,  nor  did  his 
demeanor  brighten  till  we  flashed  the  color  of  our 


HOPS   AND   HOPPERS  173 

cash.  The  natives  along  the  road  were  all  dubi 
ous  ;  and  '  bean-feasters '  from  London,  dashing  past 
in  coaches,  cheered  and  jeered  and  shouted  insult 
ing  things  after  us.  But  before  we  were  done  with 
the  Maidstone  district  my  friend  found  that  we 
were  as  well  clad,  if  not  better,  than  the  average 
hopper.  Some  of  the  bunches  of  rags  we  chanced 
upon  were  marvellous. 

"  The  tide  is  out,"  called  a  gypsy-looking  woman 
to  her  mates,  as  we  came  up  a  long  row  of  bins  into 
which^the  pickers  were  stripping  the  hops. 

"  Do  you  twig  ?  "  Bert  whispered.  "  She's  on  to 
you." 

I  twigged.  And  it  must  be  confessed  the  figure 
was  an  apt  one.  When  the  tide  is  out  boats  are 
left  on  the  beach  and  do  not  sail,  and  a  sailor,  when 
the  tide  is  out,  does  not  sail  either.  My  seafaring 
togs  and  my  presence  in  the  hop  field  proclaimed 
that  I  was  a  seaman  without  a  ship,  a  man  on  the 
beach,  and  very  like  a  craft  at  low  water. 

"  Can  yer  give  us  a  job,  governor  ? "  Bert  asked 
the  bailiff,  a  kindly  faced  and  elderly  man  who  was   . 
very  busy. 

His  "  No,"  was  decisively  uttered  ;  but  Bert  clung 
on  and  followed  him  about,  and  I  followed  after, 
pretty  well  all  over  the  field.  Whether  our  per 
sistency  struck  the  bailiff  as  anxiety  to  work,  or 
whether  he  was  affected  by  our  hard-luck  appear- 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  ABYSS 

ance  and  tale,  neither  Bert  nor  I  succeeded  in 
making  out ;  but  in  the  end  he  softened  his  heart 
and  found  us  the  one  unoccupied  bin  in  the  place 
—  a  bin  deserted  by  two  other  men,  from  what  I 
could  learn,  because  of  inability  to  make  living 
wages. 

"  No  bad  conduct,  mind  ye,"  warned  the  bailiff, 
as  he  left  us  at  work  in  the  midst  of  the  women. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  we  knew  quit 
ting  time  would  come  early ;  so  we  applied  our 
selves  earnestly  to  the  task,  desiring  to  learn  if  we 
could  at  least  make  our  salt.  It  was  simple  work, 
woman's  work,  in  fact,  and  not  man's.  We  sat  on 
the  edge  of  the  bin,  between  the  standing  hops, 
while  a  pole-puller  supplied  us  with  great  fragrant 
branches.  In  an  hour's  time  we  became  as  expert 
as  it  is  possible  to  become.  As  soon  as  the  fingers 
became  accustomed  automatically  to  differentiate 
between  hops  and  leaves  and  to  strip  half  a  dozen 
blossoms  at  a  time  there  was  no  more  to  learn. 

We  worked  nimbly,  and  as  fast  as  the  women 
themselves,  though  their  bins  filled  more  rapidly 
because  of  their  swarming  children  each  of  which 
picked  with  two  hands  almost  as  fast  as  we 
picked. 

"  Don'tcher  pick  too  clean,  it's  against  the  rules," 
one  of  the  women  informed  us ;  and  we  took  the 
tip  and  were  grateful. 


HOPS   AND    HOPPERS 


175 


As  the  afternoon  wore  along,  we  realized  that  liv 
ing  wages  could  not  be  made  —  by  men.  Women 
could  pick  as  much  as  men,  and  children  could  do 
almost  as  well  as  women  ;  so  it  was  impossible  for 
a  man  to  compete  with  a  woman  and  half  a  dozen 
children.  For  it  is  the  woman  and  the  half-dozen 


VILLAGE  HOP  PICKERS  AS  DISTINGUISHED  FROM  LONDON*  "  HOPPERS." 

children  who  count  as  a  unit  and  by  their  combined 
capacity  determine  the  unit's  pay. 

"  I  say,  matey,  I'm  beastly  hungry,"  said  I  to  Bert. 
We  had  not  had  any  dinner. 

"  Blimey,  but  I  could  eat  the  'ops,"  he  replied. 

Whereupon  we  both  lamented  our  negligence  in 
not  rearing  up  a  numerous  progeny  to  help  us  in 


1/6  THE    PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 

this  day  of  need.  And  in  such  fashion  we  whiled 
away  the  time  and  talked  for  the  edification  of  our 
neighbors.  We  quite  won  the  sympathy  of  the 
pole-puller,  a  young  country  yokel,  who  now  and 
again  emptied  a  few  picked  blossoms  into  our  bin, 
it  being  part  of  his  business  to  gather  up  the  stray 
clusters  torn  off  in  the  process  of  pulling. 

With  him  we  discussed  how  much  we  could 
'sub,'  and  were  informed  that  while  we  were  being 
paid  a  shilling  for  seven  bushels,  we  could  only 
'sub,'  or  have  advanced  to  us,  a  shilling  for  every 
twelve  bushels.  Which  is  to  say  that  the  pay  for 
five  out  of  every  twelve  bushels  was  withheld  —  a 
method  of  the  grower  to  hold  the  hopper  to  his 
work  whether  the  crop  runs  good  or  bad,  and  espe 
cially  if  it  runs  bad. 

After  all,  it  was  pleasant  sitting  there  in  the 
bright  sunshine,  the  golden  pollen  showering  from 
our  hands,  the  pungent,  aromatic  odor  of  the  hops 
biting  our  nostrils,  and  the  while  remembering 
dimly  the  sounding  cities  whence  these  people 
came.  Poor  street  people !  Poor  gutter  folk ! 
Even  they  grow  earth-hungry,  and  yearn  vaguely 
for  the  soil  from  which  they  have  been  driven,  and 
for  the  free  life  in  the  open,  and  the  wind  and  rain 
and  sun  all  imdefiled  by  city- smirches.  As  the  sea 
calls  to  the  sailor,  so  calls  the  land  to  them ;  and, 
deep  down  in  their  aborted  and  decaying  carcasses, 


HOPS  AND  HOPPERS 


177 


they  are  stirred  strangely  by  the  peasant  memories 
of  their  forbears  who  lived  before  cities  were. 
And  in  incomprehensible  ways  they  are  made  glad 
by  the  earth  smells  and  sights  and  sounds  which 
their  blood  has  not  forgotten  though  unremem- 
bered  by  'them. 


IN  THE  HOP  FIELDS. 
The  tally-keeper  checking  the  amount  picked. 

"  No  more  'ops,  matey,"  Bert  complained. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  pole-pullers  had 
knocked  off,  so  that  everything  could  be  cleaned 
up,  there  being  no  work  on  Sunday.  For  an  hour 
we  were  forced  idly  to  wait  the  coming  of  the 
measurers,  our  feet  tingling  with  the  frost  which 


178  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

came  on  the  heels  of  the  setting  sun.  In  the 
adjoining  bin,  two  women  and  half  a  dozen  chil 
dren  had  picked  nine  bushels ;  so  that  the  five 
bushels  the  measurers  found  in  our  bin  demon 
strated  that  we  had  done  equally  well,  for  the  half- 
dozen  children  had  ranged  from  nine  to  fourteen 
years  of  age. 

Five  bushels !  We  worked  it  out  to  eight  pence 
ha'penny,  or  seventeen  cents,  for  two  men  working 
three  hours  and  a  half.  Eight  and  one-half  cents 
apiece,  a  rate  of  two  and  three-sevenths  cents  per 
hour !  But  we  were  allowed  only  to  '  sub '  five- 
pence  of  the  total  sum,  though  the  tally-keeper, 
short  of  change,  gave  us  sixpence.  Entreaty  was 
in  vain.  A  hard  luck  story  could  not  move  him. 
He  proclaimed  loudly  that  we  had  received  a 
penny  more  than  our  due,  and  went  his  way. 

Granting,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument,  that  we 
were  what  we  represented  ourselves  to  be,  namely, 
poor  men  and  broke,  then  here  was  our  position : 
night  was  coming  on ;  we  had  had  no  supper,  much 
less  dinner ;  and  we  possessed  sixpence  between  us. 
I  was  hungry  enough  to  eat  three  sixpenn'orths  of 
food,  and  so  was  Bert.  One  thing  was  patent.  By 
doing  i6f  per  cent  justice  to  our  stomachs,  we 
would  expend  the  sixpence,  and  our  stomachs 
would  still  be  gnawing  under  83^-  per  cent  injustice. 
Being  broke  again,  we  could  sleep  under  a  hedge, 


HOPS   AND   HOPPERS  179 

which  was  not  so  bad,  though  the  cold  would  sap 
an  undue  portion  of  what  we  had  eaten.  But  the 
morrow  was  Sunday,  on  which  we  could  do  no 
work,  though  our  silly  stomachs  would  not  knock 
off  on  that  account.  Here,  then,  was  the  problem : 
how  to  get  three  meals  on  Sunday,  and  two  on 
Monday  (for  we  could  not  make  another  'sub'  till 
Monday  evening).  We  knew  that  the  casual  wards 
were  overcrowded ;  also,  that  if  we  begged  from 
farmer  or  villager,  there  was  a  large  likelihood  of 
our  going  to  jail  for  fourteen  days.  What  was  to 
be  dorte  ?  We  looked  at  each  other  in  despair  — 

—  Not  a  bit  of  it.  We  joyfully  thanked  God 
that  we  were  not  as  other  men,  especially  hoppers, 
and  went  down  the  road  to  Maidstone,  jingling  in 
our  pockets  the  half-crowns  and  florins  we  had 
brought  from  London. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    SEA    WIFE 

These  stupid  peasants,  who,  throughout  the  world,  hold  potentates 
on  their  thrones,  make  statesmen  illustrious,  provide  generals  with  last 
ing  victories,  all  with  ignorance,  indifference,  or  half-witted  hatred, 
moving  the  world  with  the  strength  of  their  arms,  and  getting  their 
heads  knocked  together  in  the  name  of  God,  the  king,  or  the  stock 
exchange  —  immortal,  dreaming,  hopeless  asses,  who  surrender  their 
reason  to  the  care  of  a  shining  puppet,  and  persuade  some  toy  to  carry 
their  lives  in  his  purse.  _  STEPHEN  CRANE< 

You  might  not  expect  to  find  the  Sea  Wife  in 
the  heart  of  Kent,  but  that  is  where  I  found  her, 
on  a  mean  street,  in  the  poor  quarter  of  Maidstone. 
In  her  window  she  had  no  sign  of  lodgings  to 
let,  and  persuasion  was  necessary  before  she  could 
bring  herself  to  let  me  sleep  in  her  front  room.  In 
the  evening  I  descended  to  the  semi-subterranean 
kitchen,  and  talked  with  her  and  her  old  man, 
Thomas  Mugridge  by  name. 

And  as  I  talked  to  them,  all  the  subtleties  and 
complexities  of  this  tremendous  machine  civilization 
vanished  away.  It  seemed  that  I  went  down 
through  the  skin  and  the  flesh  to  the  naked  soul 
of  it,  and  in  Thomas  Mugridge  and  his  old  woman 
gripped  hold  of  the  essence  of  this  remarkable 

1 80 


THE   SEA  WIFE  l8l 

English  breed.  I  found  there  the  spirit  of  the 
wander-lust  which  has  lured  Albion's  sons  across 
the  zones ;  and  I  found  there  the  colossal  unreck- 
oning  which  has  tricked  the  English  into  foolish 
squabblings  and  preposterous  fights,  and  the  dogged- 
ness  and  stubbornness  which  have  brought  them 
blindly  through  to  empire  and  greatness;  and  like 
wise  I  found  that  vast,  incomprehensible  patience 
which  has  enabled  the  home  population  to  endure 
under  the  burden  of  it  all,  to  toil  without  complaint 
through  the  weary  years,  and  docilely  to  yield  the 
best  ofjts  sons  to  fight  and  colonize  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth. 

Thomas  Mugridge  was  seventy-one  years  old  and 
a  little  man.  It  was  because  he  was  little  that  he 
had  not  gone  for  a  soldier.  He  had  remained  at 
home  and  worked.  His  first  recollections  were 
connected  with  work.  He  knew  nothing  else  but 
work.  He  had  worked  all  his  days,  and  at  seventy- 
one  he  still  worked.  Each  morning  saw  him  up 
with  the  lark  and  afield,  a  day  laborer,  for  as  such 
he  had  been  born.  Mrs.  Mugridge  was  seventy- 
three.  From  seven  years  of  age  she  had  worked 
in  the  fields,  doing  a  boy's  work  at  first,  and  later, 
a  man's.  She  still  worked,  keeping  the  house 
shining,  washing,  boiling,  and  baking,  and,  with  my 
advent,  cooking  for  me  and  shaming  me  by  making 
my  bed.  At  the  end  of  threescore  years  and  more 


182  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

of  work  they  possessed  nothing,  had  nothing  to 
look  forward  to  save  more  work.  And  they  were 
contented.  They  expected  nothing  else,  desired 
nothing  else. 

They  lived  simply.  Their  wants  were  few,  —  a 
pint  of  beer  at  the  end  of  the  day,  sipped  in  the 
semi-subterranean  kitchen,  a  weekly  paper  to  pore 
over  for  seven  nights  handrunning,  and  conversa 
tion  as  meditative  and  vacant  as  the  chewing  of  a 
heifer's  cud.  From  a  wood  engraving  on  the  wall 
a  slender,  angelic  girl  looked  down  upon  them,  and 
underneath  was  the  legend :  "  Our  Future  Queen." 
And  from  a  highly  colored  lithograph  alongside 
looked  down  a  -stout  and  elderly  lady,  with  under 
neath  :  "  Our  Queen  —  Diamond  Jubilee." 

"  What  you  earn  is  sweetest,"  quoth  Mrs.  Mug- 
ridge,  when  I  suggested  that  it  was  about  time  they 
took  a  rest. 

"  No,  an'  we  don't  want  help,"  said  Thomas 
Mugridge,  in  reply  to  my  question  as  to  whether 
the  children  lent  them  a  hand. 

"We'll  work  till  we  dry  up  and  blow  away, 
mother  an'  me,"  he  added ;  and  Mrs.  Mugridge 
nodded  her  head  in  vigorous  indorsement. 

Fifteen  children  she  had  borne,  and  all  were  away 
and  gone,  or  dead.  The  '  baby,'  however,  lived  in 
Maidstone,  and  she  was  twenty-seven.  When  the 
children  married  they  had  their  hands  full  with 


THE   SEA  WIFE  183 

their  own  families  and  troubles,  like  their  fathers 
and  mothers  before  them. 

Where  were  the  children  ?  Ah,  where  were  they 
not  ?  Lizzie  was  in  Australia ;  Mary  was  in  Buenos 
Ayres ;  Poll  was  in  New  York;  Joe  had  died  in 
India,  —  and  so  they  called  them  up,  the  living  and 
the  dead,  soldier  and  sailor,  and  colonist's  wife,  for 
the  traveller's  sake  who  sat  in  their  kitchen. 

They  passed  me  a  photograph.  A  trim  young 
fellow  in  soldier's  garb  looked  out  at  me. 

"  And  \vhich  son  is  this  ?  "  I  asked. 

They  laughed  a  hearty  chorus.  Son !  Nay, 
grandson,  just  back  from  Indian  service  and  a 
soldier-trumpeter  to  the  King.  His  brother  was 
in  the  same  regiment  with  him.  And  so  it  ran, 
sons  and  daughters,  and  grand  sons  and  daughters, 
world-wanderers  and  empire-builders,  all  of  them, 
while  the  old  folks  stayed  at  home  and  worked  at 
building  empire  too. 

There  dwells  a  wife  by  the  Northern  Gate, 

And  a  wealthy  wife  is  she  ; 
She  breeds  a  breed  o'  rovin'  men 

And  casts  them  over  sea. 

And  some  are  drowned  in  deep  water, 

And  some  in  sight  of  shore  ; 
And  word  goes  back  to  the  weary  wife, 

And  ever  she  sends  more. 


1 84  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

But  the  Sea  Wife's  childbearing  is  about  done. 
The  stock  is  running  out,  and  the  planet  is  filling 
up.  The  wives  of  her  sons  may  carry  on  the  breed, 
but  her  work  is  past.  The  erstwhile  men  of  Eng 
land  are  now  the  men  of  Australia,  of  Africa,  of 
America.  England  has  sent  forth  '  the  best  she 
breeds '  for  so  long,  and  has  destroyed  those  that 
remained  so  fiercely,  that  little  remains  for  her  to 
do  but  to  sit  down  through  the  long  nights  and 
gaze  at  royalty  on  the  wall. 

The  true  British  merchant  seaman  has  passed 
away.  The  merchant  service  is  no  longer  a  recruit 
ing  ground  for  such  sea  dogs  as  fought  with  Nelson 
at  Trafalgar  and  the  Nile.  Foreigners  largely  man 
the  merchant  ships,  though  Englishmen  still  con 
tinue  to  officer  them  and  to  prefer  foreigners  for'ard. 
In  South  Africa  the  colonial  teaches  the  Islander 
how  to  shoot,  and  the  officers  muddle  and  blunder; 
while  at  home  the  street  people  play  hysterically  at 
mafficking,  and  the  War  Office  lowers  the  stature 
for  enlistment. 

It  could  not  be  otherwise.  The  most  complacent 
Britisher  cannot  hope  to  draw  off  the  life  blood,  and 
underfeed,  and  keep  it  up  forever.  The  average 
Mrs.  Thomas  Mugridge  has  been  driven  into  the 
city,  and  she  is  not  breeding  very  much  of  anything 
save  an  anaemic  and  sickly  progeny  which  cannot 
find  enough  to  eat.  The  strength  of  the  English- 


THE  SEA   WIFE  185 

speaking  race  to-day  is  not  in  the  tight  little  island, 
but  in  the  New  World  overseas,  where  are  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Mrs.  Thomas  Mugridge.  The 
Sea  Wife  by  the  Northern  Gate  has  just  about  done 
her  work  in  the  world,  though  she  does  not  realize 
it.  She  must  sit  down  and  rest  her  tired  loins  for  a 
space;  and  if  the  casual  ward  and  the  workhouse 
do  not  await  her,  it  is  because  of  the  sons  and 
daughters  she  has  reared  up  against  the  day  of  her 
feebleness  and  decay. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

PROPERTY    verSUS    PERSON 

The  rights  of  property  have  been  so  much  extended  that  the  rights 
of  the  community  have  almost  altogether  disappeared,  and  it  is  hardly 
too  much  to  say  that  the  prosperity  and  the  comfort  and  the  liberties  of 
a  great  proportion  of  the  population  has  been  laid  at  the  feet  of  a  small 
number  of  proprietors,  who  neither  toil  nor  spin. 

—  JOSEPH  CHAMBERLAIN. 

IN  a  civilization  frankly  materialistic  and  based 
upon  property,  not  soul,  it  is  inevitable  that  prop 
erty  shall  be  exalted  over  soul,  that  crimes  against 
property  shall  be  considered  far  more  serious  than 
crimes  against  the  person.  To  pound  one's  wife  to 
a  jelly  and  break  a  few  of  her  ribs  is  a  trivial  offence 
compared  with  sleeping  out  under  the  naked  stars 
because  one  has  not  the  price  of  a  doss.  The  lad 
who  steals  a  few  pears  from  a  wealthy  railway  cor 
poration  is  a  greater  menace  to  society  than  the 
young  brute  who  commits  an  unprovoked  assault 
upon  an  old  man  over  seventy  years  of  age.  While 
the  young  girl  who  takes  a  lodging  under  the  pre 
tence  that  she  has  work  commits  so  dangerous  an 

O 

offence,  that,  were  she  not  severely  punished,  she 
and  her  kind  might  bring  the  whole  fabric  of  prop 
erty  clattering  to  the  ground.  Had  she  unholily 

1 86 


PROPERTY  VERSUS  PERSON          1 87 

tramped  Piccadilly  and  the  Strand  after  midnight, 
the  police  would  not  have  interfered  with  her,  and 
she  would  have  been  able  to  pay  for  her  lodging. 
The  following  illustrative  cases  are  culled  from 
the  police  court  reports  for  a  single  week :  — 

Widnes  Police  Court.  Before  Aldermen  Gossage  and 
Neil.  Thomas  Lynch,  charged  with  being  drunk  and 
disorderly  and  with  assaulting  a  constable.  Defendant 
rescued  a  woman  from  custody,  kicked  the  constable,  and 
threw  stones  at  him.  Fined  3^.  6d.  for  the  first  offence, 
and  IQS.  and  costs  for  the  assault. 

Glasgow  Queen's  Park  Police  Court.  Before  Bailie 
Norman  Thompson.  John  Kane  pleaded  guilty  to  assault 
ing  his  wife.  There  were  five  previous  convictions. 
Fined  £2  2s. 

Taunton  County  Petty  Sessions.  John  Painter,  a  big, 
burly  fellow,  described  as  a  laborer,  charged  with  assault 
ing  his  wife.  The  woman  received  two  severe  black  eyes, 
and  her  face  was  badly  swollen.  Fined  jQi  8^.  including 
costs,  and  bound  over  to  keep  the  peace. 

Widnes  Police  Court.  Richard  Bestwick  and  George 
Hunt,  charged  with  trespassing  in  search  of  game.  Hunt 
fined  £i  and  costs,  Bestwick  £2  and  costs ;  in  default  one 
month. 

Shaftesbury  Police  Court.  Before  the  Mayor  (Mr.  A. 
T.  Carpenter).  Thomas  Baker,  charged  with  sleeping 
out.  Fourteen  days. 

Glasgow  Central  Police  Court.  Before  Bailie  Dunlop. 
Edward  Morrison,  a  lad,  convicted  of  stealing  fifteen  pears 
from  a  lorry  at  the  railroad  station.  Seven  days. 


188  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

Doncaster  Borough  Police  Court.  Before  Alderman 
Clark  and  other  magistrates.  James  M'Gowan,  charged 
under  the  Poaching  Prevention  Act  with  being  found  in 
possession  of  poaching  implements  and  a  number  of 
rabbits.  Fined  £2  and  costs,  or  one  month. 

Dunfermline  Sheriff  Court.  Before  Sheriff  Gillespie. 
John  Young,  a  pit-head  worker,  pleaded  guilty  to  assault 
ing  Alexander  Storrar  by  beating  him  about  the  head  and 
body  with  his  fists,  throwing  him  on  the  ground,  and  also 
striking  him  with  a  pit  prop.  Fined  £i. 

Kirkcaldy  Police  Court.  Before  Bailie  Dishart.  Simon 
Walker  pleaded  guilty  to  assaulting  a  man  by  striking 
and  knocking  him  down.  It  was  an  unprovoking  assault, 
and  the  magistrate  described  the  accused  as  a  perfect 
danger  to  the  community.  Fined  30^. 

Mansfield  Police  Court.  Before  the  Mayor,  Messrs. 
F.  J.  Turner,  J.  Whitaker,  F.  Tidsbury,  E.  Holmes,  and 
Dr.  R.  Nesbitt.  Joseph  Jackson,  charged  with  assaulting 
Charles  Nunn.  Without  any  provocation,  defendant  struck 
the  complainant  a  violent  blow  in  the  face,  knocking  him 
down,  and  then  kicked  him  on  the  side  of  the  head,  He 
was  rendered  unconscious,  and  he  remained  under  medical 
treatment  for  a  fortnight.  Fined  2is. 

Perth  Sheriff  Court.  Before  Sheriff  Sym.  David 
Mitchell,  charged  with  poaching.  There  were  two  pre 
vious  convictions,  the  last  being  three  years  ago.  The 
sheriff  was  asked  to  deal  leniently  with  Mitchell,  who  was 
sixty-two  years  of  age,  and  who  offered  no  resistance  to 
the  gamekeeper.  Four  months. 

Dundee  Sheriff  Court.  Before  Hon.  Sheriff  substi 
tute  R.  C.  Walker.  John  Murray,  Donald  Craig,  and 


PROPERTY    VERSUS  PERSON  189 

James  Parkes,  charged  with  poaching.     Craig  and  Parkes 
fined  j£i  each  or  fourteen  days  ;  Murray  £,$  or  one  month. 

Reading  Borough  Police  Court.  Before  Messrs.  W.  B. 
Monck,  F.  B.  Parfitt,  H.  M.  Wallis,  and  G.  Gillagan. 
Alfred  Masters,  aged  sixteen,  charged  with  sleeping  out 
on  a  waste  piece  of  ground  and  having  no  visible  means 
of  subsistence.  Seven  days. 

Salisbury  City  Petty  Sessions.  Before  the  Mayor, 
Messrs.  C.  Hoskins,  G.  Fullford,  E.  Alexander,  and  W. 
Marlow.  James  Moore,  charged  with  stealing  a  pair  of 
boots  from  outside  a  shop.  Twenty-one  days. 

Horncastle  Police  Court.  Before  the  Rev.  W.  P.  Mas- 
singbei*!,  the  Rev.  J.  Graham,  and  Mr.  N.  Lucas  Calcraft. 
George  Brackenbury,  a  young  laborer,  convicted  of  what 
the  magistrates  characterized  as  an  altogether  unprovoked 
and  brutal  assault  upon  James  Sargeant  Foster,  a  man 
over  seventy  years  of  age.  Fined  £i  and  $s.  6d.  costs. 

Worksop  Petty  Sessions.  Before  Messrs.  F.  J.  S. 
Foljambe,  R.  Eddison,  and  S.  Smith.  John  Priestley, 
charged  with  assaulting  the  Rev.  Leslie  Graham.  Defen 
dant,  who  was  drunk,  was  wheeling  a  perambulator  and 
pushed  it  in  front  of  a  lorry,  with  the  result  that  the  peram 
bulator  was  overturned  and  the  baby  in  it  thrown  out. 
The  lorry  passed  over  the  perambulator,  but  the  baby 
was  uninjured.  Defendant  then  attacked  the  driver  of 
the  lorry,  and  afterwards  assaulted  the  complainant,  who 
remonstrated  with  him  upon  his  conduct.  In  consequence 
of  the  injuries  defendant  inflicted,  complainant  had  to 
consult  a  doctor.  Fined  40^.  and  costs. 

Rotherham  West  Riding  Police  Court.  Before  Messrs. 
C.  Wright  and  G.  Pugh  and  Colonel  Stoddart.  Benjamin 


190  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

Storey,  Thomas  Brammer,  and   Samuel  Wilcock,  charged 
with  poaching.     One  month  each. 

Southampton  County  Police  Court.  Before  Admiral  J. 
C.  Rowley,  Mr.  H.  H.  Culme-Seymour,  and  other  magis 
trates.  Henry  Thorrington,  charged  with  sleeping  out. 
Seven  days. 

Eckington  Police  Court.  Before  Major  L.  B.  Bowden, 
Messrs.  R.  Eyre,  and  H.  A.  Fowler,  and  Dr.  Court.  Joseph 
Watts,  charged  with  stealing  nine  ferns  from  a  garden. 
One  month. 

Ripley  Petty  Sessions.  Before  Messrs.  J.  B.  Wheeler, 
W.  D.  Bembridge,  and  M.  Hooper.  Vincent  Allen  and 
George  Hall,  charged  under  the  Poaching  Prevention  Act 
with  being  found  in  possession  of  a  number  of  rabbits, 
and  John  Sparham,  charged  with  aiding  and  abetting 
them.  Hall  and  Sparham  fined  £i  i?s.  ^d.,  and  Allen 
£2  ijs.  Afd.,  including  costs;  the  former  committed  for 
fourteen  days  and  the  latter  for  one  month  in  default  of 
payment. 

South-western  Police  Court,  London.  Before  Mr.  Rose. 
John  Probyn,  charged  with  doing  grievous  bodily  harm  to 
a  constable.  Prisoner  had  been  kicking  his  wife,  and  also 
assaulting  another  woman  who  protested  against  his  bru 
tality.  The  constable  tried  to  persuade  him  to  go  inside 
his  house,  but  prisoner  suddenly  turned  upon  him,  knock 
ing  him  down  by  a  blow  on  the  face,  kicking  him  as 
he  lay  on  the  ground,  and  attempting  to  strangle  him. 
Finally  the  prisoner  deliberately  kicked  the  officer  in  a 
dangerous  part,  inflicting  an  injury  which  will  keep  him 
off  duty  for  a  long  time  to  come.  Six  weeks. 


PROPERTY    VERSUS  PERSON  191 

Lambeth  Police  Court,  London.  Before  Mr.  Hopkins. 
'Baby'  Stuart,  aged  nineteen,  described  as  a  chorus  girl, 
charged  with  obtaining  food  and  lodging  to  the  value 
of  5-r.,  by  false  pretences,  and  with  intent  to  defraud 
Emma  Brasier.  Emma  Brasier,  complainant,  lodging- 
house  keeper,  of  Atwell  Road.  Prisoner  took  apartments 
at  her  house  on  the  representation  that  she  was  employed 
at  the  Crown  Theatre.  After  prisoner  had  been  in  her 
house  two  or  three  days,  Mrs.  Brasier  made  inquiries, 
and,  finding  the  girl's  story  untrue,  gave  her  into  custody. 
Prisoner  told  the  magistrate  that  she  would  have  worked 
had  she  not  had  such  bad  health.  Six  weeks  hard  labor. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

INEFFICIENCY 

I'd  rather  die  on  the  high  road  under  the  open  blue.  I'd  rather 
starve  to  death  in  the  sweet  air,  or  drown  in  the  brave,  salt  sea,  or  have 
one  fierce  glad  hour  of  battle,  and  then  a  bullet,  than  lead  the  life  of  a 
brute  in  a  stinking  hell,  and  gasp  out  my  broken  breath  at  last  on  a 
pauper's  pallet.  -ROBERT  BLATCHFORD. 

I  STOPPED  a  moment  to  listen  to  an  argument  on 
the  Mile  End  Waste.  It  was  night-time,  and  they 
were  all  workmen  of  the  better  class.  They  had 
surrounded  one  of  their  number,  a  pleasant-faced 
man  of  thirty,  and  were  giving  it  to  him  rather 
heatedly. 

"  But  'ow  about  this  'ere  cheap  immigration  ?  " 
one  of  them  demanded.  "  The  Jews  of  White- 
chapel,  say,  a-cuttin'  our  throats  right  along?" 

"  You  can't  blame  them,"  was  the  answer. 
"  They're  just  like  us,  and  they've  got  to  live. 
Don't  blame  the  man  who  offers  to  work  cheaper 
than  you  and  gets  your  job." 

"  But  'ow  about  the  wife  an'  kiddies  ?  "  his  inter 
locutor  demanded. 

"  There  you  are,"  came  the  answer.  "  How 
about  the  wife  and  kiddies  of  the  man  who  works 

192 


INEFFICIENCY 


193 


cheaper  than  you  and  gets  your  job  ?  Eh  ?  How 
about  his  wife  and  kiddies  ?  He's  more  interested 
in  them  than  in  yours,  and  he  can't  see  them  starve. 
So  he  cuts  the  price  of  labor  and  out  you  go.  But 
you  mustn't  blame  him,  poor  devil.  He  can't  help 
it.  Wages  always  come  down  when  two  men  are 


MILE  END  ROAD. 


after  the  same' job.  That's  the  fault  of  competition, 
not  of  the  man  who  cuts  the  price." 

"  But  wyges  don't  come  down  where  there's  a 
union,"  the  objection  was  made. 

"  And  there  you  are  again,  right  on  the  head. 
The  union  checks  competition  among  the  laborers, 
but  makes  it  harder  where  there  are  no  unions. 


194  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

There's  where  your  cheap  labor  of  Whitechapel 
comes  in.  They're  unskilled,  and  have  no  unions, 
and  cut  each  other's  throats,  and  ours  in  the  bar 
gain,  if  we  don't  belong  to  a  strong  union." 

Without  going  further  into  the  argument,  this 
man  on  the  Mile  End  Waste  pointed  the  moral 
that  when  two  men  were  after  the  one  job  wages 
were  bound  to  fall.  Had  he  gone  deeper  into  the 
matter,  he  would  have  found  that  even  the  union, 
say  twenty  thousand  strong,  could  not  hold  up 
wages  if  twenty  thousand  idle  men  were  trying  to 
displace  the  union  men.  This  is  admirably  in 
stanced,  just  now,  by  the  return  and  disbandment 
of  the  soldiers  from  South  Africa.  They  find 
themselves,  by  tens  of  thousands,  in  desperate 
straits  in  the  army  of  the  unemployed.  There  is 
a  general  decline  in  wages  throughout  the  land, 
which,  giving  rise  to  labor  disputes  and  strikes, 
is  taken  advantage  of  by  the  unemployed,  who 
gladly  pick  up  the  tools  thrown  down  by  the 
strikers. 

Sweating,  starvation  wages,  armies  of  unemployed, 
and  great  numbers  of  the  homeless  and  shelterless 
are  inevitable  when  there  are  more  men  to  do  work 
than  there  is  work  for  men  to  do.  The  men  and 
women  I  have  met  upon  the  streets,  and  in  the 
spikes  and  pegs,  are  not  there  because  as  a  mode 
of  life  it  may  be  considered  a  '  soft  snap.'  I 


INEFFICIENCY 


195 


sufficiently  outlined  the  hardships  they  undergo  to 
demonstrate  that  their   existence    is  anything  but 

'  soft; 

It  is  a  matter  of  sober  calculation,  here  in  Eng 
land,  that  it  is  softer  to  work  for  twenty  shillings 


PICKING  OAKUM  IN  THE  CASUAL  WARD. 

($5)  a  \veek,  and  have  regular  food,  and  a  bed 
at  night,  than  it  is  to  walk  the  streets.  The  man 
who  walks  the  streets  suffers  more,  and  works 
harder,  for  far  less  return.  I  have  depicted  the 
nights  they  spend,  and  how,  driven  in  by  physical 
exhaustion,  they  go  to  the  casual  ward  for  a  '  rest 


196  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

up.'  Nor  is  the  casual  ward  a  soft  snap.  To  pick 
four  pounds  of  oakum,  break  twelve  hundredweight 
of  stones,  or  perform  the  most  revolting  tasks,  in 
return  for  the  miserable  food  and  shelter  they  re 
ceive,  is  an  unqualified  extravagance  on  the  part 
of  the  men  who  are  guilty  of  it.  On  the  part  of 
the  authorities,  it  is  sheer  robbery.  They  give  the 
men  far  less  for  their  labor  than  do  the  capitalistic 
employers.  The  wage  for  the  same  amount  of 
labor,  performed  for  a  private  employer,  would  buy 
them  better  beds,  better  food,  more  good  cheer,  and, 
above  all,  greater  freedom. 

As  I  say,  it  is  an  extravagance  for  a  man  to  pat 
ronize  a  casual  ward.  And  that  they  know  it  them 
selves  is  shown  by  the  way  these  men  shun  it  till 
driven  in  by  physical  exhaustion.  Then  why  do 
they  do  it?  Not  because  they  are  discouraged 
workers.  The  very  opposite  is  true ;  they  are 
discouraged  vagabonds.  In  the  United  States  the 
tramp  is  almost  invariably  a  discouraged  worker. 
He  finds  tramping  a  softer  mode  of  life  than  work 
ing.  But  this  is  not  true  in  England.  Here  the 

O  O 

powers  that  be  do  their  utmost  to  discourage  the 
tramp  and  vagabond,  and  he  is,  in  all  truth,  a 
mightily  discouraged  creature.  He  knows  that  two 
shillings  a  day,  which  is  only  fifty  cents,  will  buy 
him  three  fair  meals,  a  bed  at  night,  and  leave  him 
a  couple  of  pennies  for  pocket  money.  He  would 


INEFFICIENCY  197 

rather  work  for  those  two  shillings,  than  for  the 
charity  of  the  casual  ward  ;  for  he  knows  that  he 
would  not  have  to  work  so  hard  and  that  he  would 
not  be  so  abominably  treated.  He  does  not  do  so, 
however,  because  there  are  more  men  to  do  work 
than  there  is  work  for  men  to  do. 

When  there  are  more  men  than  there  is  work  to 
be  done,  a  sifting-out  process  must  obtain.  In 
every  branch  of  industry  the  less  efficient  are 
crowded  out.  Being  crowded  out  because  of  ineffi 
ciency,  they  cannot  go  up,  but  must  descend,  and 
continue  to  descend,  until  they  reach  their  proper 
level,  a  place  in  the  industrial  fabric  where  they  are 
efficient.  It  follows,  therefore,  and  it  is  inexorable, 
that  the  least  efficient  must  descend  to  the  very 
bottom,  which  is  the  shambles  wherein  they  perish 
miserably. 

A  glance  at  the  confirmed  inefficients  at  the  bot- 

o 

torn  demonstrates  that  they  are,  as  a  rule,  mental, 
physical,  and  moral  wrecks.  The  exceptions  to  the 
rule  are  the  late  arrivals,  who  are  merely  very  ineffi 
cient,  and  upon  whom  the  wrecking  process  is  just 
beginning  to  operate.  All  the  forces  here,  it  must 
be  remembered,  are  destructive.  The  good  body 
(which  is  there  because  its  brain  is  not  quick  and 
capable)  is  speedily  wrenched  and  twisted  out  of 
shape;  the  clean  mind  (which  is  there  because  of 
its  weak  body)  is  speedily  fouled  and  contaminated. 


198  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

The  mortality  is  excessive,  but,  even  then,  they  die 
far  too  lingering  deaths. 

Here,  then,  we  have  the  construction  of  the 
Abyss  and  the  shambles.  Throughout  the  whole 
industrial  fabric  a  constant  elimination  is  going  on. 
The  inefficient  are  weeded  out  and  flung  downward. 
Various  things  constitute  inefficiency.  The  engi 
neer  who  is  irregular  or  irresponsible  will  sink  down 
until  he  finds  his  place,  say  as  a  casual  laborer,  an 
occupation  irregular  in  its  very  nature  and  in  which 
there  is  little  or  no  responsibility.  Those  who  are 
slow  and  clumsy,  who  suffer  from  weakness  of  body 
or  mind,  or  who  lack  nervous,  mental,  and  physical 
stamina,  must  sink  down,  sometimes  rapidly,  some 
times  step  by  step,  to  the  bottom.  Accident,  by 
disabling  an  efficient  worker,  will  make  him  ineffi 
cient,  and  down  he  must  go.  And  the  worker  who 
becomes  aged,  with  failing  energy  and  numbing 
brain,  must  begin  the  frightful  descent  which  knows 
no  stopping-place  short  of  the  bottom  and  death. 

In  this  last  instance,  the  statistics  of  London  tell 
a  terrible  tale.  The  population  of  London  is  one- 
seventh  of  the  total  population  of  the  United  King 
dom,  and  in  London,  year  in  and  year  out,  one  adult 
in  every  four  dies  on  public  charity,  either  in  the 
workhouse,  the  "hospital,  or  the  asylum.  When  the 
fact  that  the  well-to-do  do  not  end  thus  is  taken 
into  consideration,  it  becomes  manifest  that  it  is  the 


INEFFICIENCY  199 

fate  of  at  least  one  in  every  three  adult  workers  to 
die  on  public  charity. 

As  an  illustration  of  how  a  good  worker  may 
suddenly  become  inefficient,  and  what  then  happens 
to  him,  I  am  tempted  to  give  the  case  of  M'Garry, 
a  man  thirty-two  years  of  age,  and  an  inmate  of  the 
workhouse.  The  extracts  are  quoted  from  the 
annual  report  of  the  trade  union :  — 

I  worked  at  Sullivan's  place  in  Widnes,  better  known  as 
the  British  Alkali  Chemical  Works.  I  was  working  in  a 
shed,  and  I  had  to  cross  the  yard.  It  was  ten  o'clock  at 
night,  and  there  was  no  light  about.  While  crossing  the 
yard  I  felt  something  take  hold  of  my  leg  and  screw  it  off. 
I  became  unconscious ;  I  didn't  know  what  became  of  me 
for  a  day  or  two.  On  the  following  Sunday  night  I  came 
to  my  senses,  and  found  myself  in  the  hospital.  I  asked 
the  nurse  what  was  to  do  with  my  legs,  and  she  told  me 
both  legs  were  off. 

There  was  a  stationary  crank  in  the  yard,  let  into  the 
ground;  the  hole  was  18  inches  long,  15  inches  deep,  and 
15  inches  wide.  The  crank  revolved  in  the  hole  three 
revolutions  a  minute.  There  was  no  fence  or  covering 
over  the  hole.  Since  my  accident  they  have  stopped  it  al 
together,  and  have  covered  the  hole  up  with  a  piece  of 
sheet  iron.  .  .  .  They  gave  me  ^25.  They  didn't  reckon 
that  as  compensation ;  they  said  it  was  only  for  charity's 
sake.  Out  of  that  I  paid  £g  for  a  machine  by  which  to 
wheel  myself  about. 

I  was  laboring  at  the  time  I  got  my  legs  off.  I  got 
twenty-four  shillings  a  week,  rather  better  pay  than  the 
other  men,  because  I  used  to  take  shifts.  When  there  was 


200  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

* 

heavy  work  to  be  done  I  used  to  be  picked  out  to  do  it. 
Mr.  Manton,  the  manager,  visited  me  at  the  hospital  sev 
eral  times.  When  I  was  getting  better,  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  be  able  to  find  me  a  job.  He  told  me  not  to  trouble 
myself,  as  the  firm  was  not  cold-hearted.  I  would  be 
right  enough  in  any  case.  .  .  .  Mr.  Manton  stopped 
coming  to  see  me ;  and  the  last  time,  he  said  he  thought  of 
asking  the  directors  to  give  me  a  fifty-pound  note,  so  I 
could  go  home  to  my  friends  in  Ireland. 

Poor  M'Garry !  He  received  rather  better  pay 
than  the  other  men  because  he  was  ambitious  and 
took  shifts,  and  when  heavy  work  was  to  be  done 
he  was  the  man  picked  out  to  do  it.  And  then 
the  thing  happened,  and  he  went  into  the  work 
house.  The  alternative  to  the  workhouse  is  to  go 
home  to.  Ireland  and  burden  his  friends  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  Comment  is  superfluous. 

It  must  be  understood  that  efficiency  is  not  de 
termined  by  the  workers  themselves,  but  is  deter 
mined  by  the  demand  for  labor.  If  three  men 
seek  one  position,  the  most  efficient  man  will  get 
it.  The  other  two,  no  matter  how  capable  they 
may  be,  will  none  the  less  be  inefficients.  If  Ger 
many,  Japan,  and  the  United  States  should  cap 
ture  the  entire  world  market  for  iron,  coal,  and 
textiles,  at  once  the  English  workers  would  be 
thrown  idle  by  hundreds  of  thousands.  Some 
would  emigrate,  but  the  rest  would  rush  their 
labor  into  the  remaining  industries.  A  general 


INEFFICIENCY  2OI 

shaking  up  of  the  workers  from  top  to  bottom 
would  result;  and  when  equilibrium  had  been  re 
stored,  the  number  of  the  inefficients  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  Abyss  would  have  been  increased  by 
hundreds  of  thousands.  On  the  other  hand,  condi 
tions  remaining  constant  and  all  the  workers  doub 
ling  their  efficiency,  there  would  still  be  as  many 
inefficients,  though  each  inefficient  were  twice  as 
capable  as  he  had  been  and  more  capable  than 
many  of  the  efficients  had  previously  been. 

When  there  are  more  men  to  work  than  there  is 
work  for  men  to  do,  just  as  many  men  as  are  in 
excess  of  work  will  be  inefficients,  and  as  ineffi 
cients  they  are  doomed  to  lingering  and  painful 
destruction.  It  shall  be  the  aim  of  future  chapters 
to  show,  by  their  work  and  manner  of  living,  not 
only  how  the  inefficients  are  weeded  out  and  de 
stroyed,  but  to  show  how  inefficients  are  being 
constantly  and  wantonly  created  by  the  forces  of 
industrial  society  as  it  exists  to-day. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

WAGES 

Some  sell  their  lives  for  bread ; 

Some  sell  their  souls  for  gold  ; 
Some  seek  the  river  bed  ; 

Some  seek  the  workhouse  mold. 

Such  is  proud  England's  sway, 
Where  wealth  may  work  its  will ; 

White  flesh  is  cheap  to-day, 
White  souls  are  cheaper  still. 

—  FANTASIAS. 

WHEN  I  learned  that  in  Lesser  London  there 
were  1,292,737  people  who  received  21  shillings 
or  less  a  week  per  family,  I  became  interested  as 
to  how  the  wages  could  best  be  spent  in  order  to 
maintain  the  physical  efficiency  of  such  families. 
Families  of  six,  seven,  eight,  or  ten  being  beyond 
consideration,  I  have  based  the  following  table 
upon  a  family  of  five,  a  father,  mother,  and  three 
children ;  while  I  have  made  2 1  shillings  equiva 
lent  to  $5.25,  though  actually,  21  shillings  are 
equivalent  to  about  $5.11. 


WAGES  203 

Rent • $1.50 

Bread i.oo 

Meat 87$ 

Vegetables 62^- 

Coals 25 

Tea .18 

Oil 16 

Sugar 1 8 

Milk 12 

Soap 08 

Butter 20 

Firewood   .  .08 


Total $5.25 

An*analvsis  of    one  item  alone  will   show  how 

J 

little  room  there  is  for  waste.  Bread,  $i  :  for  a 
family  of  five,  for  seven  days,  one  dollar's  worth  of 
bread  will 'give  each  a  daily  ration  of  2-f  cents;  and 
if  they  eat  three  meals  a  day,  each  may  consume 
per  meal  9^-  mills'  worth  of  bread,  a  little  less  than 
one  cent's  worth.  Now  bread  is  the  heaviest  item. 
They  will  get  less  of  meat  per  mouth  each  meal, 
and  still  less  of  vegetables ;  while  the  smaller  items 
become  too  microscopic  for  consideration.  On  the 
other  hand,  these  food  articles  are  all  bought  at 
small  retail,  the  most  expensive  and  wasteful 
method  of  purchasing. 

While  the  table  given  above  will  permit  no 
extravagance,  no  overloading  of  stomachs,  it  will 
be  noticed  that  there  is  no  surplus.  The  whole 
$5.25  is  spent  for  food  and  rent.  There  is  no 


204  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

pocket  money  left  over.  Does  the  man  buy  a  glass 
of  beer,  the  family  must  eat  that  much  less ;  and  in 
so  far  as  it  eats  less,  just  that  far  will  it  impair  its 
physical  efficiency.  The  members  of  this  family 
cannot  ride  in  busses  or  trams,  cannot  write  letters, 
take  outings,  go  to  a  '  tu'penny  gaff '  for  cheap 
vaudeville,  join  social  or  benefit  clubs,  nor  can  they 
buy  sweetmeats,  tobacco,  books,  or  newspapers. 

And  further,  should  one  child  (and  there  are 
three)  require  a  pair  of  shoes,  the  family  must  strike 
meat  for  a  week  from  its  bill  of  fare.  And,  since 
there  are  five  pairs  of  feet  requiring  shoes,  and 
five  heads  requiring  hats,  and  five  bodies  requiring 
clothes,  and  since  there  are  laws  regulating  inde 
cency,  the  family  must  constantly  impair  its  physi 
cal  efficiency  in  order  to  keep  warm  and  out  of  jail. 
For  notice,  when  rent,  coals,  oil,  soap,  and  firewood 
are  extracted  from  the  weekly  income,  there  remains 
a  daily  allowance  for  food  of  9  cents  to  each  per 
son  ;  and  that  9  cents  cannot  be  lessened  by  buy 
ing  clothes  without  impairing  the  physical  effi 
ciency. 

All  of  which  is  hard  enough.  But  the  thing  hap 
pens  ;  the  husband  and  father  breaks  his  leg  or  his 
neck.  No  9  cents  a  day  per  mouth  for  food  is 
coming  in ;  no  9^  mills'  worth  of  bread  per  meal ; 
and,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  no  $1.50  for  rent.  So 
out  they  must  go,  to  the  streets  or  the  workhouse, 


WAGES  205 

or  to  a  miserable  den,  somewhere,  in  which  the 
mother  will  desperately  endeavor  to  hold  the  family 
together  on  the  10  shillings  she  may  possibly  be 
able  to  earn. 

While  in  Lesser  London  there  are  1,292,737  people 
who  receive  2 1  shillings  or  less  a  week  per  family,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  we  have  investigated  a 
family  of  five  living  on  a  21 -shillings  basis.  There 
are  larger  families,  there  are  many  families  that 
live  on  less  than  21  shillings,  and  there  is  much 
irregular  employment.  The  question  naturally 
arises*  How  do  they  live  ?  The  answer  is  that 
they  do  not  live.  They  do  not  know  what  life  is. 
They  drag  out  a  subter-bestial  existence  until  mer 
cifully  released  by  death. 

Before  descending  to  the  fouler  depths,  let  the 
case  of  the  telegraph  girls  be  cited.  Here  are  clean, 
fresh,  English  maids,  for  whom  a  higher  standard 
of  living  than  that  of  the  beasts  is  absolutely  neces 
sary.  Otherwise  they  cannot  remain  clean,  fresh 
English  maids.  On  entering  the  service,  a  tele 
phone  girl  receives  a  weekly  wage  of  $2.75.  If  she 
be  quick  and  clever,  she  may,  at  the  end  of  five 
years,  attain  a  maximum  wage  of  $5.00.  Recently 
a  table  of  such  a  girl's  weekly  expenditure  was  fur 
nished  to  Lord  Londonderry.  Here  it  is :  — 


206  THE   PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 

Rent,  fire,  and  light $1.87^ 

Board  at  home 87^ 

Board  at  the  office 1.12^ 

Street  car  fare 37^ 

Laundry 25 

Total $4-50 

.  This  leaves  nothing  for  clothes,  recreation,  or 
sickness.  And  yet  many  of  the  girls  are  receiving, 
not  $4.50,  but  $2.75,  $3,  and  $3.50  per  week.  They 
must  have  clothes  and  recreation,  and  — 

Man  to  Man  so  oft  unjust, 
Is  always  so  to  Woman. 

At  the  Trades  Union  Congress  now  being  held 
in  London,  the  Gasworkers'  Union  moved  that 
instructions  be  given  the  Parliamentary  Committee 
to  introduce  a  bill  to  prohibit  the  employment  of 
children  under  fifteen  years  of  age.  Mr.  Shackle- 
ton,  Member  of  Parliament  and  a  representative  of 
the  Northern  Counties'  Weavers,  opposed  the  reso 
lution  on  behalf  of  the  textile  workers,  who,  he  said, 
could  not  dispense  with  the  earnings  of  their  chil 
dren  and  live  on  the  scale  of  wages  which  obtained. 
The  representatives  of  5 14,000  workers  voted  against 
the  resolution,  while  the  representatives  of  535,000 
workers  voted  in  favor  of  it.  When  5 14,000  workers 
oppose  a  resolution  prohibiting  child-labor  under 
fifteen,  it  is  evident  that  a  less-than-living  wage  is 


WAGES  207 

being  paid  to  an  immense  number  of  the  adult 
workers  of  the  country. 

I  have  spoken  with  women  in  Whitechapel  who 
receive  right  along  less  than  25  cents  for  a  twelve- 
hour  day  in  the  coat-making  sweat  shops;  and  with 
women  trousers  finishers  who  receive  an  average 
princely  and  weekly  wage  of  75  cents  to  $i. 

A  case  recently  cropped  up  of  men,  in  the  employ 
of  a  wealthy  business  house,  receiving  their  board 
and  $1.50  per  week  for  six  working  days  of  sixteen 
hours  each.  The  sandwich  men  get  27  cents  per 
day  and  find  themselves.  The  average  weekly 
earnings  of  the  hawkers  and  costermongers  are  not 
more  than  $2.50  to  $3.  The  average  of  all  com 
mon  laborers,  outside  the  dockers,  is  less  than  $4 
per  week,  while  the  dockers  average  from  $2  to 
$2.25.  These  figures  are  taken  from  a  royal  com 
mission  report  and  are  authentic. 

Conceive  of  an  old  woman,  broken  and  dying, 
supporting  herself  and  four  children,  and  paying 
75  cents  per  week  rent,  by  making  match  boxes  at 
4-5-  cents  per  gross.  Twelve  dozen  boxes  for  4^ 
cents,  and,  in  addition,  finding  her  own  paste  and 
thread  !  She  never  knew  a  day  off,  either  for  sick 
ness,  rest,  or  recreation.  Each  day  and  every  day, 
Sundays  as  well,  she  toiled  fourteen  hours.  Her 
day's  stint  was  seven  gross,  for  which  she  received 
3i|  cents.  In  the  week  of  ninety-eight  hours'  work, 


208  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

she  made  7066  match  boxes,  and  earned  $2.20^,  less 
her  paste  and  thread; 

Last  year,  Mr.  Thomas  Holmes,  a  police  court 
missionary  of  note,  after  writing  about  the  condi 
tion  of  the  women  workers,  received  the  following 
letter,  dated  April  18,  1901 :  — 

SIR  :  Pardon  the  liberty  I  am  taking,  but,  having  read 
what  you  said  about  poor  women  working  fourteen  hours 
a  day  for  ten  shillings  per  week,  I  beg  to  state  my  case. 
I  am  a  tie-maker,  who,  after  working  all  the  week,  cannot 
earn  more  than  five  shillings,  and  I  have  a  poor  afflicted 
husband  to  keep  who  hasn't  earned  a  penny  for  more  than 
ten  years. 

Imagine  a  woman,  capable  of  writing  such  a  clear, 
sensible,  grammatical  letter,  supporting  her  husband 
and  self  on  5  shillings  ($1.25)  per  week!  Mr. 
Holmes  visited  her.  He  had  to  squeeze  to  get  into 
the  room.  There  lay  her  sick  husband ;  there  she 
worked  all  day  long ;  there  she  cooked,  ate,  washed, 
and  slept ;  and  there  her  husband  and  she  performed 
all  the  functions  of  living  and  dying.  There  was 
no  space  for  the  missionary  to  sit  down,  save  on  the 
bed,  which  was  partially  covered  with  ties  and  silk. 
The  sick  man's  lungs  were  in  the  last  stages  of 
decay.  He  coughed  and  expectorated  constantly, 
the  woman  ceasing  from  her  work  to  assist  him  in 

O 

his  paroxysms.     The  silken  fluff  from  the  ties  was 
not  good  for   his  sickness ;    nor   was   his  sickness 


WAGES  209 

good  for  the  ties,  and  the  handlers  and  wearers  of 
the  ties  yet  to  come. 

Another  case  Mr.  Holmes  visited  was  that  of  a 
young  girl,  twelve  years  of  age,  charged  in  the  police 
court  with  stealing  food.  He  found  her  the  deputy 
mother  of  a  boy  of  nine,  a  crippled  boy  of  seven, 
and  a  younger  child.  Her  mother  was  a  widow 
and  a  blouse-maker.  She  paid  $1.25  a  week  rent. 
Here  are  the  last  items  in  her  housekeeping  account: 
Tea,  i  cent ;  sugar,  I  cent ;  bread,  \  cent ;  marga 
rine,  2  cents ;  oil,  3  cents ;  and  firewood,  i  cent. 
Good*  house  wives  of  the  soft  and  tender  folk,  imag 
ine  yourselves  marketing  and  keeping  house  on 
such  a  scale,  setting  a  table  for  five,  and  keeping  an 
eye  on  your  deputy  mother  of  twelve  to  see  that 
she  did  not  steal  food  for  her  little  brothers  and 
sisters,  the  while  you  stitched,  stitched,  stitched  at 
a  nightmare  line  of  blouses,  which  stretched  away 
into  the  gloom  and  down  to  the  pauper's  coffin 
a-yawn  for  you. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE    GHETTO 

Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  Science,  glorying  in  the  time, 
City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense  in  city  slime  ? 
There  among  the  gloomy  alleys  Progress  halts  on  palsied  feet, 
Crime  and  hunger  cast  our  maidens  by  the  thousand  on  the  street ; 

There  the  master  scrimps  his  haggard  seamstress  of  her  daily  bread ; 
There  a  single  sordid  attic  holds  the  living  and  the  dead ; 
There  the  smouldering  fire  of  fever  creeps  across  the  rotted  floor, 
And  the  crowded  couch  of  incest,  in  the  warrens  of  the  poor. 

—  TENNYSON. 

AT  one  time  the  nations  of  Europe  confined  the 
undesirable  Jews  in  city  ghettos.  But  to-day  the 
dominant  economic  class,  by  less  arbitrary  but  none 
the  less  rigorous  methods,  has  confined  the  undesir 
able  yet  necessary  workers  into  ghettos  of  remarka 
ble  meanness  and  vastness.  East  London  is  such 
a  ghetto,  where  the  rich  and  the  powerful  do  not 
dwell,  and  the  traveller  cometh  not,  and  where 
two  million  workers  swarm,  procreate,  and  die. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  all  the  workers  of 
London  are  crowded  into  the  East  End,  but  the 
tide  is  setting  strongly  in  that  direction.  The  poor 
quarters  of  the  city  proper  are  constantly  being 
destroyed,  and  the  main  stream  of  the  unhoused  is 


THE   GHETTO  211 

toward  the  east.  In  the  last  twelve  years,  one  dis 
trict,  "  London  over  the  Border,"  as  it  is  called, 
which  lies  well  beyond  Aldgate,  Whitechapel,  and 
Mile  End,  has  increased  260,000,  or  over  sixty  per 
cent.  The  churches  in  this  district,  by  the  way,  can 
seat  but  one  in  every  thirty-seven  of  the  added  pop 
ulation. 

The  City  of  Dreadful  Monotony  the  East  End  is 
often  called,  especially  by  well-fed,  optimistic  sight 
seers,  who  look  over  the  surface  of  things  and  are 
merely  shocked  by  the  intolerable  sameness  and 
meanness  of  it  all.  If  the  East  End  is  worthy  of  no 

J 

worse  title  than  The  City  of  Dreadful  Monotony, 
and  if  working  people  are  unworthy  of  variety  and 
beauty  and  surprise,  it  would  not  be  such  a  bad 
place  in  which  to  live.  But  the  East  End  does 
merit  a  worse  title.  It  should  be  called  The  City 
of  Degradation. 

While  it  is  not  a  city  of  slums,  as  some  people 
imagine,  it  may  well  be  said  to  be  one  gigantic 
slum.  From  the  standpoint  of  simple  decency  and 
clean  manhood  and  womanhood,  any  mean  street, 
of  all  its  mean  streets,  is  a  slum.  Where  sights  and 
sounds  abound  which  neither  you  nor  I  would  care 
to  have  our  children  see  and  hear  is  a  place  where 
no  man's  children  should  live,  and  see  and  hear. 
Where  you  and  I  would  not  care  to  have  our  wives 
pass  their  lives  is  a  place  where  no  other  man's  wife 


212 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


should  have  to  pass  her  life.  For  here,  in  the  East 
End,  the  obscenities  and  brute  vulgarities  of  life  are 
rampant.  There  is  no  privacy.  The  bad  corrupts 
the  good,  and  all  fester  together.  Innocent  child 
hood  is  sweet  and  beautiful ;  but  in  East  London 
innocence  is  a  fleeting  thing,  and  you  must  catch 


Ax  EAST  END  INTERIOR. 


them  before  they  crawl  out  of  the  cradle,  or  you  will 
find  the  very  babes  as  unholily  wise  as  you. 

The  application  of  the  Golden  Rule  determines 
that  East  London  is  an  unfit  place  in  which  to  live. 
Where  you  would  not  have  your  own  babe  live,  and 
develop,  and  gather  to  itself  knowledge  of  life  and 
the  things  of  life,  is  not  a  fit  place  for  the  babes 


THE   GHETTO  213 

of  other  men  to  live,  and  develop,  and  gather  to 
themselves  knowledge  of  life  and  the  things  of  life. 
It  is  a  simple  thing,  this  Golden  Rule,  and  all  that 
is  required.  Political  economy  and  the  survival  of 
the  fittest  can  go  hang  if  they  say  otherwise.  What 
is  not  good  enough  for  you  is  not  good  enough  for 
other  men,  and  there's  no  more  to  be  said. 

There  are  300,000  people  in  London,  divided  into 
families,  that  live  in  one-room  tenements.  Far,  far 
more  live  in  two  and  three  rooms  and  are  as  badly 
crowded,  regardless  of  sex,  as  those  that  live  in  one 
room.  *  The  law  demands  400  cubic  feet  of  space 
for  each  person.  In  army  barracks  each  soldier  is 
allowed  600  cubic  feet.  Professor  Huxley,  at  one 
time  himself  a  medical  officer  in  East  London,  al 
ways  held  that  each  person  should  have  800  cubic 
feet  of  space,  and  that  it  should  be  well  ventilated 
with  pure  air.  Yet  in  London  there  are  900,000 
people  living  in  less  than  the  400  cubic  feet  pre 
scribed  by  the  law. 

Mr.  Charles  Booth,  who  engaged  in  a  systematic 
work  of  years  in  charting  and  classifying  the  toiling 
city  population,  estimates  that  there  are  1,800,000 
people  in  London  who  are  poor  and  very  poor. 
It  is  of  interest  to  mark  what  he  terms  poor.  By 
poor  he  means  families  which  have  a  total  weekly 
income  of  from  $4.50  to  $5.25.  The  very  poor  fall 
greatly  below  this  standard. 


214         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

The  workers,  as  a  class,  are  being  more  and 
more  segregated  by  their  economic  masters ;  and 
this  process,  with  its  jamming*  and  overcrowding, 
tends  not  so  much  toward  immorality  as  immoral 
ity.  Here  is  an  extract  from  a  recent  meeting  of 
the  London  County  Council,  terse  and  bald,  but 
with  a  wealth  of  horror  to  be  read  between  the 
lines :  — 

Mr.  Bruce  asked  the  Chairman  of  the  Public  Health 
Committee  whether  his  attention  had  been  called  to  a 
number  of  cases  of  serious  overcrowding  in  the  East  End. 
In  St.  Georges-in-the-East  a  man  and  his  wife  and  their 
family  of  eight  occupied  one  small  room.  This  family 
consisted  of  five  daughters,  aged  twenty,  seventeen,  eight, 
four,  and  an  infant,  and  three  sons,  aged  fifteen,  thirteen, 
and  twelve.  In  Whitechapel  a  man  and  his  wife  and  their 
three  daughters,  aged  sixteen,  eight,  and  four,  and  two 
sons,  aged  ten  and  twelve  years,  occupied  a  smaller  room. 
In  Bethnal  Green  a  man  and  his  wife,  with  four  sons,  aged 
twenty-three,  twenty-one,  nineteen,  and  sixteen,  and  two 
daughters,  aged  fourteen  and  seven,  were  also  found  in 
one  room.  He  asked  whether  it  was  not  the  duty  of  the 
various  local  authorities  to  prevent  such  serious  over 
crowding. 

But  with  900,000  people  actually  living  under 
illegal  conditions,  the  authorities  have  their  hands 
full.  When  the  overcrowded  folk  are  ejected  they 
stray  off  into  some  other  hole  ;  and,  as  they  move 
their  belongings  by  night,  on  hand-barrows  (one 


DEVONSHIRE  PLACE,  LISSON  GROVE. 


THE   GHETTO  215 

hand-barrow  accommodating  the  entire  household 
goods  and  the  sleeping  children),  it  is  next  to 
impossible  to  keep  track  of  them.  If  the  Public 
Health  Act  of  1891  were  suddenly  and  completely 
enforced,  900,000  people  would  receive  notice  to 
clear  out  of  their  houses  and  go  on  to  the  streets, 
and  500,000  rooms  would  have  to  be  built  before 
they  were  all  legally  housed  again. 

The  mean  streets  merely  look  mean  from  the 
outside,  but  inside  the  walls  are  to  be  found 
squalor,  misery,  and  tragedy.  While  the  following 
tragedy  may  be  revolting  to  read,  it  must  not  be 
forgotten  that  the  existence  of  it  is  far  more  revolt 
ing.  In  Devonshire  Place,  Lisson  Grove,  a  short 
while  back  died  an  old  woman  of  seventy-five  years 
of  age.  At  the  inquest  the  coroner's  officer  stated 
that  "  all  he  found  in  the  room  was  a  lot  of  old 
rags  covered  with  vermin.  He  had  got  himself 
smothered  with  the  vermin.  The  room  was  in  a 
shocking  condition,  and  he  had  never  seen  any 
thing  like  it.  Everything  was  absolutely  covered 
with  vermin." 

The  doctor  said :  "  He  found  deceased  lying 
across  the  fender  on  her  back.  She  had  one 
garment  and  her  stockings  on.  The  body  \vas 
quite  alive  with  vermin,  and  all  the  clothes  in  the 
room  were  absolutely  gray  with  insects.  Deceased 
was  very  badly  nourished  and  was  very  emaciated. 


2l6  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  ABYSS 

She  had  extensive  sores  on  her  legs,  and  her  stock 
ings  were  adherent  to  those  sores.  The  sores  were 
the  result  of  vermin." 

A  man  present  at  the  inquest  wrote :  "  I  had  the 
evil  fortune  to  see  the  body  of  the  unfortunate 
woman  as  it  lay  in  the  mortuary ;  and  even  now 
the  memory  of  that  grewsome  sight  makes  me 
shudder.  There  she  lay  in  the  mortuary  shell,  so 
starved  and  emaciated  that  she  was  a  mere  bundle 
of  skin  and  bones.  Her  hair,  which  was  matted 
with  filth,  was  simply  a  nest  of  vermin.  Over  her 
bony  chest  leaped  and  rolled  hundreds,  thousands, 
myriads  of  vermin." 

If  it  is  not  good  for  your  mother  and  my  mother 
so  to  die,  then  it  is  not  good  for  this  woman,  whoso- 
ever's  mother  she  might  be,  so  to  die. 

Bishop  Wilkinson,  who  has  lived  in  Zululand, 
recently  said,  "  No  headman  of  an  African  village 
would  allow  such  a  promiscuous  mixing  of  young 
men  and  women,  boys  and  girls."  He  had  refer 
ence  to  the  children  of  the  overcrowded  folk,  who 
at  five  have  nothing  to  learn  and  much  to  unlearn 

O 

which  they  will  never  unlearn. 

It  is  notorious  that  here  in  the  Ghetto  the  houses 
of  the  poor  are  greater  profit  earners  than  the  man 
sions  of  the  rich.  Not  only  does  the  poor  worker 
have  to  live  like  a  beast,  but  he  pays  proportionately 
more  for  it  than  does  the  rich  man  for  his  spacious 


THE   GHETTO  217 

comfort.  A  class  of  house-sweaters  has  been  made 
possible  by  the  competition  of  the  poor  for  houses. 
There  are  more  people  than  there  is  room,  and 
numbers  are  in  the  workhouse  because  they  cannot 
find  shelter  elsewhere.  Not  only  are  houses  let,  but 


"A    PART   OP'   A    ROOM    TO    LET." 


they  are  sublet,  and  sub-sublet    down   to   the  very 
rooms. 

"  A  part  of  a  room  to  let."  This  notice  was 
posted  a  short  while  ago  in  a  window  not  five 
minutes'  walk  from  St.  James's  Hall.  The  Rev. 
Hugh  Price  Hughes  is  authority  for  the  statement 
that  beds  are  let  on  the  three-relay  system  —  that 
is,  three  tenants  to  a  bed,  each  occupying  it  eight 


218  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

hours,  so  that  it  never  grows  cold;  while  the  floor 
space  underneath  the  bed  is  likewise  let  on  the 
three-relay  system.  Health  officers  are  not  at  all 
unused  to  finding  such  cases  as  the  following:  in 
one  room  having  a  cubic  capacity  of  1000  feet,  three 
adult  females  in  the  bed,  and  two  adult  females 
under  the  bed;  and  in  one  room  of  1650  cubic 
feet,  one  adult  male  and  two  children  in  the  bed, 
and  two  adult  females  under  the  bed. 

Here  is  a  typical  example  of  a  room  on  the  more 
respectable  two-relay  system.  It  is  occupied  in  the 
daytime  by  a  young  woman  employed  all  night 
in  a  hotel.  At  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  she 
vacates  the  room,  and  a  bricklayer's  laborer  comes 
in.  At  seven  in  the  morninsf  he  vacates,  and  ^oes 

O  O 

to  his  work,  at  which  time  she  returns  from 
hers. 

The  Rev.  W.  N.  Davies,  rector  of  Spitalfields, 
took  a  census  of  some  of  the  alleys  in  his  parish. 
He  says :  — 

In  one  alley  there  are  10  houses  —  51  rooms,  nearly  all 
about  8  feet  by  9  feet  —  and  254  people.  In  six  instances 
only  do  2  people  occupy  one  room  ;  and  in  others  the 
number  varied  from  3  to  9.  In  another  court  with  6 
houses  and  22  rooms  were  84  people  —  again,  6,  7,  8, 
and  9  being  the  number  living  in  one  room,  in  several  • 
instances.  In  one  house  with  8  rooms  are  45  people 
—  one  room  containing  9  persons,  one  8,  two  7,  and 
another  6. 


A  TWO-RELAY  SYSTEM  LODGING. 


THE   GHETTO  2 19 

This  Ghetto  crowding  is  not  through  inclination, 
but  compulsion.  Nearly  fifty  per  cent  of  the  workers 
pay  from  one-fourth  to  one-half  of  their  earnings  for 
rent.  The  average  rent  in  the  larger  part  of  the 
East  End  is  from  $1.00  to  $1.50  per  week  for  one 
room,  while  skilled  mechanics,  earning  $8.75  per 
week,  are  forced  to  part  with  $3.75  of  it  for  two  or 
three  pokey  little  dens,  in  which  they  strive  desper 
ately  to  obtain  some  semblance  of  home  life.  And 
rents  are  going  up  all  the  time.  In  one  street  in 
Stepney  the  increase  in  only  two  years  has  been 
from  $3.25  to  $4.50;  in  another  street  from  $2.75  to 
$4;  and  in  another  street,  from  $2.75  to  $3.75; 
while  in  Whitechapel,  two-room  houses  that  re 
cently  rented  for  $2.50  are  now  costing  $5.25. 
East,  west,  north,  and  south,  the  rents  are  going 
up.  When  land  is  worth  from  $100,000  to  $150,000 
an  acre,  some  one  must  pay  the  landlord. 

Mr.  W.  C.  Steadman,  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
in  a  speech  concerning  his  constituency  in  Stepney, 
related  the  following :  — 

This  morning,  not  a  hundred  yards  from  where  I  am 
myself  living,  a  widow  stopped  me.  She  has  six  children 
to  support,  and  the  rent  of  her  house  was  14  shillings  per 
week.  She  gets  her  living  by  letting  the  house  to  lodgers 
and  doing  a  day's  washing  or  charing.  That  woman,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  told  me  that  the  landlord  had  increased 
the  rent  from  14  shillings  to  18  shillings.  What  could  the 


22O 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


woman    do  ?      There   is   no    accommodation   in    Stepney. 
Every  place  is  taken  up  and  overcrowded. 

Class  supremacy  can  rest  only  on  class  degra 
dation  ;  and  when  the  workers  are  segregated  in  the 
Ghetto,  they  cannot  escape  the  consequent  degrada 
tion.  A  short  and  stunted  people  is  created,  —  a 


A  GROUP  OF  JEWISH  CHILDREN. 

breed  strikingly  differentiated  from  their  masters' 
breed,  a  pavement  folk,  as  it  were,  lacking  stamina 
and  strength.  The  men  become  caricatures  of 

O 

what  physical  men  ought  to  be,  and  their  women 
and  children  are  pale  and  anaemic,  with  eyes  ringed 
darkly,  who  stoop  and  slouch,  and  are  early  twisted 
out  of  all  shapeliness  and  beauty. 


THE    GHETTO  221 

To  make  matters  worse,  the  men  of  the  Ghetto 
are  the  men  who  are  left,  a  deteriorated  stock  left 
to  undergo  still  further  deterioration.  For  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years,  at  least,  they  have  been 
drained  of  their  best.  The  strong  men,  the  men 
of  pluck,  initiative,  and  ambition,  have  been  faring 
forth  to  the  fresher  and  freer  portions  of  the  globe, 
to  make  new  lands  and  nations.  Those  who  are 
lacking,  the  weak  of  heart  and  head  and  hand,  as 
well  as  the  rotten  and  hopeless,  have  remained  to 
carry  on  the  breed.  And  year  by  year,  in  turn,  the 
best  tftey  breed  are  taken  from  them.  Wherever  a 
man  of  vigor  and  stature  manages  to  grow  up,  he 
is  haled  forthwith  into  the  army.  A  soldier,  as 
Bernard  Shaw  has  said,  "  ostensibly  a  heroic  and 
patriotic  defender  of  his  country,  is  really  an  unfor 
tunate  man  driven  by  destitution  to  offer  himself 
as  food  for  powder  for  the  sake  of  regular  rations, 
shelter,  and  clothing." 

This  constant  selection  of  the  best  from  the 
workers  has  impoverished  those  who  are  left,  a 
sadly  degraded  remainder,  for  the  great  part,  which, 
in  the  Ghetto,  sinks  to  the  deepest  depths.  The 
wine  of  life  has  been  drawn  off  to  spill  itself  in 
blood  and  progeny  over  the  rest  of  the  earth. 
Those  that  remain  are  the  lees,  and  they  are  segre 
gated  and  steeped  in  themselves.  They  become 
indecent  and  bestial.  When  they  kill,  they  kill 


222 


THE    PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 


with  their  hands,  and  then  stupidly  surrender  them 
selves  to  the  executioners.  There  is  no  splendid 
audacity  about  their  transgressions.  They  gouge 
a  mate  with  a  dull  knife,  or  beat  his  head  in  with 
an  iron  pot,  and  then  sit  down  and  wait  for  the 
police.  Wife-beating  is  the  masculine  prerogative 
of  matrimony.  They  wear  remarkable  boots  of 


THE  GHETTO  MAKKICT, 


brass  and  iron,  and  when  they  have  polished  off 
the  mother  of  their  children  with  a  black  eye  or 
so,  they  knock  her  down  and  proceed  to  trample 
her  very  much  as  a  Western  stallion  tramples  a 
rattlesnake. 

A  woman  of  the  lower  Ghetto  classes  is  as  much 
the  slave  of  her  husband  as  is  the  Indian  squaw. 
And  I,  for  one,  were  I  a  woman  and  had  but  the 


THE   GHETTO 


223 


two  choices,  should  prefer  being  the  squaw.  The 
men  are  economically  dependent  on  their  masters, 
and  the  women  are  economically  dependent  on  the 
men.  The  result  is,  the  woman  gets  the  beating 
the  man  should  give  his  master,  and  she  can  do 
nothing.  There  are  the  kiddies,  and  he  is  the 
breadwinner,  and  she  dare  not  send  him  to  jail  and 


WHITECHAPEL. 

leave  herself  and  children  to  starve.  Evidence  to 
convict  can  rarely  be  obtained  when  such  cases 
come  into  the  courts ;  as  a  rule  the  trampled  wife 
and  mother  is  weeping  and  hysterically  beseeching 
the  magistrate  to  let  her  husband  off  for  the  kiddies' 

O 

sakes. 

The  wives  become  screaming  harridans  or  broken- 
spirited  and   doglike,  lose  what  little  decency  and 


224  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

self-respect  they  have  remaining  over  from  their 
maiden  days,  and  all  sink  together,  unheeding,  in 
their  degradation  and  dirt. 

Sometimes  I  become  afraid  of  my  own  generaliza 
tions  upon  the  massed  misery  of  this  Ghetto  life,  and 
feel  that  my  impressions  are  exaggerated,  that  I  am 
too  close  to  the  picture  and  lack  perspective.  At 
such  moments  I  find  it  well  to  turn  to  the  testimony 
of  other  men  to  prove  to  myself  that  I  am  not  be 
coming  overwrought  and  addle-pated.  Frederick 
Harrison  has  always  struck  me  as  being  a  level 
headed,  well-controlled  man,  and  he  says :  — 

To  me,  at  least,  it  would  be  enough  to  condemn  modern 
society  as  hardly  an  advance  on  slavery  or  serfdom,  if  the 
permanent  condition  of  industry  were  to  be  that  which  we 
behold,  that  ninety  per  cent  of  the  actual  producers  of 
wealth  have  no  home  that  they  can  call  their  own  beyond 
the  end  of  the  week ;  have  no  bit  of  soil,  or  so  much  as  a 
room  that  belongs  to  them  ;  have  nothing  of  value  of  any 
kind,  except  as  much  old  furniture  as  will  go  into  a  cart ; 
have  the  precarious  chance  of  weekly  wages,  which  barely 
suffice  to  keep  them  in  health ;  are  housed,  for  the  most 
part,  in  places  that  no  man  thinks  fit  for  his  horse ;  are 
separated  by  so  narrow  a  margin  from  destitution  that  a 
month  of  bad  trade,  sickness,  or  unexpected  loss  brings 
them  face  to  face  with  hunger  and  pauperism.  .  .  .  But 
below  this  normal  state  of  the  average  workman  in  town 
and  country,  there  is  found  the  great  band  of  destitute  out 
casts —  the  camp  followers  of  the  army  of  industry  —  at 
least  one-tenth  of  the  whole  proletarian  population,  whose 


THE   GHETTO 


225 


normal  condition  is  one  of  sickening  wretchedness.  If 
this  is  to  be  the  permanent  arrangement  of  modern 
society,  civilization  must  be  held  to  bring  a  curse  on  the 
great  majority  of  mankind. 

Ninety  per  cent !     The  figures  are  appalling,  yet 
the  Rev.  Stopford  Brooke,  after  drawing  a  frightful 


London  picture,  finds  himself  compelled  to  multiply 
it  by  half  a  million.     Here  it  is  :  — 

I  often  used  to  meet,  when  I  was  curate  at  Kensing 
ton,  families  drifting  into  London  along  the  Hammersmith 
Road.  One  day  there  came  along  a  laborer  and  his  wife, 
his  son  and  two  daughters.  Their  family  had  lived  for  a 
long  time  on  an  estate  in  the  country,  and  managed,  with 
the  help  of  the  common-land  and  their  labor,  to  get  on. 


226 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


But  the  time  came  when  the  common  was  encroached 
upon,  and  their  labor  was  not  needed  on  the  estate,  and 
they  were  quietly  turned  out  of  their  cottage.  Where 
should  they  go  ?  Of  course  to  London,  where  work  was 
thought  to  be  plentiful.  They  had  a  little  savings,  and 
they  thought  they  could  get  two  decent  rooms  to  live  in. 
But  the  inexorable  land  question  met  them  in  London. 


VIEW  IN  STRATFORD. 


They  tried  the  decent  courts  for  lodgings,  and  found  that 
two  rooms  would  cost  ten  shillings  a  week.  Food  was 
dear  and  bad,  water  was  bad,  and  in  a  short  time  their 
health  suffered.  Work  was  hard  to  get,  and  its  wage  was 
so  low  that  they  were  soon  in  debt.  They  became  more 
ill  and  more  despairing  with  the  poisonous  surroundings, 
the  darkness,  and  the  long  hours  of  work  ;  and  they  were 
driven  forth  to  seek  a  cheaper  lodging.  They  found  it  in 
a  court  I  knew  well  —  a  hotbed  of  crime  and  nameless 


THE   GHETTO  227 

horrors.  In  this  they  got  a  single  room  at  a  cruel  rent, 
and  work  was  more  difficult  for  them  to  get  now,  as  they 
came  from  a  place  of  such  bad  repute,  and  they  fell  into 
the  hands  of  those  who  sweat  the  last  drop  out  of  man  and 
woman  and  child,  for  wages  which  are  the  food  only  of 
despair.  And  the  darkness  and  the  dirt,  the  bad  food  and 
the  sickness,  and  the  want  of  water  was  worse  than  before ; 
and  the  crowd  and  the  companionship  of  the  court  robbed 
them  of  the  last  shreds  of  self-respect.  The  drink  demon 
seized  upon  them.  Of  course  there  was  a  public  house  at 
both  ends  of  the  court.  There  they  fled,  one  and  all,  for 
shelter,  and  warmth,  and  society,  and  forgetfulness.  And 
they  came  out  in  deeper  debt,  with  inflamed  senses  and  burn 
ing  brains,  and  an  unsatisfied  craving  for  drink  they  would 
do  anything  to  satiate.  And  in  a  few  months  the  father 
was  in  prison,  the  wife  dying,  the  son  a  criminal,  and  the 
daughters  on  the  street.  Multiply  tJiis  by  half  a  million, 
and  yon  will  be  beneath  the  trntJi. 

No  more  dreary  spectacle  can  be  found  on  this 
earth  than  the  whole  of  the  '  awful  East,'  with  its 
Whitechapel,  Hoxton,  Spitalfields,  Bethnal  Green, 
and  Wapping  to  the  East  India  Docks.  The  color 
of  life  is  gray  and  drab.  Everything  is  helpless, 
hopeless,  unrelieved,  and  dirty.  Bath-tubs  are  a 
thing  totally  unknown,  as  mythical  as  the  ambrosia 
of  the  gods.  The  people  themselves  are  dirty,  while 
any  attempt  at  cleanliness  becomes  howling  farce, 
when  it  is  not  pitiful  and  tragic.  Strange,  vagrant 
odors  come  drifting  along  the  greasy  wind,  and  the 
rain,  when  it  falls,  is  more  like  grease  than  water 


228 


THE   PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 


from  heaven.  The  very  cobblestones  are  scummed 
with  grease.  In  brief,  a  vast  and  complacent  dirti 
ness  obtains,  which  could  be  done  away  with  by 
nothing  short  of  a  Vesuvius  or  Mount  Pelee. 

Here  lives  a  population  as  dull  and  unimagina 
tive  as  its  long  gray  miles  of  dingy  brick.  Religion 
has  virtually  passed  it  by,  and  a  gross  and  stupid 


Tin-:  GHETTO  MAKKHT, 

materialism  reigns,  fatal  alike  to  the  things  of  the 
spirit  and  the  finer  instincts  of  life. 

It  used  to  be  the  proud  boast  that  every  English 
man's  home  was  his  castle.  But  to-day  it  is  an 
anachronism.  The  Ghetto  folk  have  no  homes. 
They  do  not  know  the  significance  and  the  sacred- 
ness  of  home  life.  Even  the  municipal  dwellings, 
where  live  the  better-class  workers,  are  overcrowded 


THE   GHETTO 


229 


barracks.  They  have  no  home  life.  The  very 
language  proves  it.  The  father  returning  from 
work  asks  his  child  in  the  street  where  her  mother 
is ;  and  back  the  answer  comes,  "  In  the  buildings." 
A  new  race  has  sprung  up,  a  street  people. 
They  pass  their  lives  at  work  and  in  the  streets. 
They  have  dens  and  lairs  into  which  to  crawl  for 


WHITECHAPEL. 


sleeping  purposes,  and  that  is  all.  One  cannot 
travesty  the  word  by  calling  such  dens  and  lairs 
'  homes.'  The  traditional  silent  and  reserved  Eng 
lishman  has  passed  away.  The  pavement  folk  are 
noisy,  voluble,  high-strung,  excitable  —  when  they 
are  yet  young.  As  they  grow  older  they  become 
steeped  and  stupefied  in  beer.  When  they  have 
nothing  else  to  do,  they  ruminate  as  a  cow  rumi- 


230  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  ABYSS 

nates.  They  are  to  be  met  with  everywhere, 
standing  on  curbs  and  corners,  and  staring  into 
vacancy.  Watch  one  of  them.  He  will  stand  there, 
motionless,  for  hours,  and  when  you  go  away  you 
will  leave  him  still  staring  into  vacancy.  It  is  most 
absorbing.  He  has  no  money  for  beer,  and  his  lair 


VIEW  IN  HOXTOX. 


is  only  for  sleeping  purposes,  so  what  else  remains 
for  him  to  do  ?  He  has  already  solved  the  myste 
ries  of  girl's  love,  and  wife's  love,  and  child's  love, 
and  found  them  delusions  and  shams,  vain  and  fleet 
ing  as  dewdrops,  quick-vanishing  before  the  ferocious 
facts  of  life. 


THE   GHETTO  231 

As  I  say,  the  young  are  high-strung,  nervous,  ex 
citable  ;  the  middle-aged  are  empty-headed,  stolid, 
and  stupid.  It  is  absurd  to  think  for  an  instant  that 
they  can  compete  with  the  workers  of  the  New 
World.  Brutalized,  degraded,  and  dull,  the  Ghetto 
folk  will  be  unable  to  render  efficient  service  to 
England  in  the  world  struggle  for  industrial  suprem 
acy  which  economists  declare  has  already  begun. 
Neither  as  workers  nor  as  soldiers  can  they  come 
up  to  the  mark  when  England,  in  her  need,  calls 
upon  them,  her  forgotten  ones ;  and  if  England  be 
flung  out  of  the  world's  industrial  orbit,  they  will 
perish  like  flies  at  the  end  of  summer.  Or,  with 
England  critically  situated,  and  with  them  made 
desperate  as  wild  beasts  are  made  desperate,  they 
may  become  a  menace  and  go  '  swelling '  down  to 
the  West  End  to  return  the  '  slumming '  the  West 
End  has  done  in  the  East.  In  which  case,  before 
rapid-fire  guns  and  the  modern  machinery  of  war 
fare,  they  will  perish  the  more  swiftly  and  easily. 


CHAPTER    XX 

COFFEE-HOUSES    AND    DOSS-HOUSES 

Why  should  we  be  packed,  head  and  tail,  like  canned  sardines? 

—  ROBERT  BLATCHFORD. 

ANOTHER  phrase  gone  glimmering,  shorn  of 
romance  and  tradition  and  all  that  goes  to  make 
phrases  worth  keeping!  For  me,  henceforth, 
'  coffee-house '  will  possess  anything  but  an  agree 
able  connotation.  Over  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  the  mere  mention  of  the  word  was  sufficient 
to  conjure  up  whole  crowds  of  its  historic  frequent 
ers,  and  to  send  trooping  through  my  imagination 
endless  groups  of  wits  and  dandies,  pamphleteers 
and  bravos,  and  bohemians  of  Grub  Street. 

But  here,  on  this  side  of  the  world,  alas  and  alack, 
the  very  name  is  a  misnomer.  Coffee-house :  a 
place  where  people  drink  coffee.  Not  at  all.  You 
cannot  obtain  coffee  in  such  a  place  for  love  or 
money.  True,  you  may  call  for  coffee,  and  you  will 
have  brought  you  something  in  a  cup  purporting  to 
be  coffee,  and  you  will  taste  it  and  be  disillusioned, 
for  coffee  it  certainly  is  not. 

232 


VIEW  IN  WAPPING. 


COFFEE-HOUSES   AND   DOSS-HOUSES 


233 


And  what  is  true  of  the  coffee  is  true  of  the 
coffee-house.  Working-men,  in  the  main,  frequent 
these  places,  and  greasy,  dirty  places  they  are,  with 
out  one  thing  about  them  to  cherish  decency  in  a 
man  or  put  self-respect  into  him.  Tablecloths  and 
napkins  are  unknown.  A  man  eats  in  the  midst  of 


THE  EAST  INDIA  DOCKS. 


the  debris  left  by  his  predecessor,  and  dribbles  his 
own  scraps  about  him  and  on  the  floor.  In  rush 
times,  in  such  places,  I  have  positively  waded, 
through  the  muck  and  mess  that  covered  the  floor 
and  I  have  managed  to  eat  because  I  was  abomina 
bly  hungry  and  capable  of  eating  anything. 

This   seems   to   be  the   normal   condition  of  the 


234  THE-  PEOPLE   OF    THE   ABYSS 

working-man,  from  the  zest  with  which  he  addresses 
himself  to  the  board.  Eatin-g  is  a  necessity,  and 
there  are  no  frills  about  it.  He  brings  in  with  him 
a  primitive  voraciousness,  and,  I  am  confident, 
carries  away  with  him  a  fairly  healthy  appetite. 
When  you  see  such  a  man,  on  his  way  to  work  in 
the  morning,  order  a  pint  of  tea,  which  is  no  more 
tea  than  it  is  ambrosia,  pull  a  hunk  of  dry  bread 
from  his  pocket,  and  wash  the  one  down  with  the 
other,  depend  upon  it,  that  man  has  not  the  right 
sort  of  stuff  in  his  belly,  nor  enough  of  the  wrong 
sort  of  stuff,  to  fit  him  for  his  day's  work.  And 
further,  depend  upon  it,  he  and  a  thousand  of  his  kind 
will  not  turn  out  the  quantity  or  quality  of  work 
that  a  thousand  men  will  who  have  eaten  heartily 
of  meat  and  potatoes  and  drunk  coffee  that  is  coffee. 

A  pint  of  tea,  kipper  (or  bloater),  and  '  two  slices ' 
(bread  and  butter)  are  a  very  good  breakfast  for  a 
London  workman.  I  have  looked  in  vain  for  him 
to  order  a  five-penny  or  six-penny  steak  (the  cheap 
est  to  be  had) ;  while,  when  I  ordered  one  for  myself, 
I  have  usually  had  to  wait  till  the  proprietor  could 
send  out  to  the  nearest  butchershop  and  buy  one. 

As  a  vagrant  in  the  'Hobo'  of  a  California  jail, 
I  have  been  served  better  food  and  drink  than  the 
London  workman  receives  in  his  coffee-houses ; 
while  as  an  American  laborer  I  have  eaten  a 
breakfast  for  twelvepence  such  as  the  British 


COFFEE-HOUSES   AND   DOSS-HOUSES  235 

laborer  would  not  dream  of  eating.  Of  course,  he 
will  pay  only  three  or  four  pence  for  his;  which  is, 
however,  as  much  as  I  paid,  for  I  would  be  earning 
six  shillings  to  his  two  or  two  and  a  half.  On  the 
other  hand,  though,  and  in  return,  I  would  turn  out 
an  amount  of  work  in  the  course  of  the  day  that 
would  put  to  shame  the  amount  he  turned  out.  So 
there  are  two  sides  to  it.  The  man  with  the  high 
standard  of  living  will  always  do  more  work  and 

O  J 

better  than  the  man  with  the  low  standard  of  living. 
There  is  a  comparison  which  sailormen  make 
between  the  English  and  American  merchant 
services.  In  an  English  ship,  they  say,  it  is  poor 
grub,  poor  pay,  and  easy  work ;  in  an  American 
ship,  good  grub,  good  pay,  and  hard  work.  And 
this  is  applicable  to  the  working  populations  of  both 
countries.  The  ocean  greyhounds  have  to  pay  for 
speed  and  steam,  and  so  does  the  workman.  But  if 
the  workman  is  not  able  to  pay  for  it,  he  will  not 
have  the  speed  and  steam,  that  is  all.  The  proof 
of  it  is  when  the  English  workman  comes  to 

O 

America.  He  will  lay  more  bricks  in  New  York 
than  he  will  in  London,  still  more  bricks  in  St. 
Louis,  and  still  more  bricks  when  he  gets  to  San 
Francisco.1  His  standard  of  living  has  been  rising 
all  the  time. 

1  The  San  Francisco  bricklayer  receives  twenty  shillings  per  day, 
and  at  present  is  on  strike  for  twenty-four  shillings. 


236         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

Early  in  the  morning,  along  the  streets  frequented 
by  workmen  on  the  way  to  work,  many  women  sit 
on  the  sidewalk  with  sacks  of  bread  beside  them. 
No  end  of  workmen  purchase  these,  and  eat  them  as 
they  walk  along.  They  do  not  even  wash  the  dry 
bread  down  with  the  tea  to  be  obtained  for  a  penny 


TURNING  OVER  THE  SCRAPS  AND  SHREDS  OF  BEEF  AND  MUTTON. 

in  the  coffee-houses.  It  is  incontestable  that  a  man 
is  not  fit  to  begin  his  day's  work  on  a  meal  like  that ; 
and  it  is  equally  incontestable  that  the  loss  will  fall 
upon  his  employer  and  upon  the  nation.  For  some 
time,  now.  statesmen  have  been  crying,  "  Wake  up, 
England ! "  It  would  show  more  hard-headed 


COFFEE-HOUSES  AND   DOSS-HOUSES 


237 


common  sense  if  they  changed  the  tune  to  "  Feed 
up,  England !  " 

Not  only  is  the  worker  poorly  fed,  but  he  is 
filthily  fed.  I  have  stood  outside  a  butchershop 
and  watched  a  horde  of  speculative  housewives 
turning  over  the  trimmings  and  scraps  and  shreds 


A  COSTER'S  BARROW. 


of  beef  and  mutton  —  dog-meat  in  the  States.  I 
would  not  vouch  for  the  clean  fingers  of  these  house 
wives,  no  more  than  I  would  vouch  for  the  cleanli 
ness  of  the  single  rooms  in  which  many  of  them 
and  their  families  lived ;  yet  they  raked,  and  pawed, 
and  scraped  the  mess  about  in  their  anxiety  to  get 


238  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

the  worth  of  their  coppers.  I  kept  my  eye  on  one 
particularly  offensive-looking  bit  of  meat,  and  fol 
lowed  it  through  the  clutches  of  over  twenty  women, 
till  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  timid-appearing  little 
woman  whom  the  butcher  bullclosed  into  taking  it. 
All  day  long  this  heap  of  scraps  was  added  to  and 
taken  away  from,  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  street  fall 
ing  upon  it,  flies  settling  on  it,  and  the  dirty  fingers 
turning  it  over  and  over. 

The  costers  wheel  loads  of  specked  and  decaying 
fruit  around  in  the  barrows  all  day,  and  very  often 
store  it  in  their  one  living  and  sleeping  room  for 
the  night.  There  it  is  exposed  to  the  sickness  and 
disease,  the  effluvia  and  vile  exhalations  of  over 
crowded  and  rotten  life,  and  next  day  it  is  carted 
about  again  to  be  sold. 

The  poor  worker  of  the  East  End  never  knows 
what  it  is  to  eat  good  wholesome  meat  or  fruit  —  in 
fact,  he  rarely  eats  meat  or  fruit  at  all ;  while  the 
skilled  workman  has  nothing  to  boast  of  in  the 
way  of  what  he  eats.  Judging  from  the  coffee 
houses,  which  is  a  fair  criterion,  they  never  know 
in  all  their  lives  what  tea,  coffee,  or  cocoa  taste 
like.  The  slops  and  water-witcheries  of  the  coffee 
houses,  varying  only  in  sloppiness  and  witchery, 
never  even  approximate  or  suggest  what  you  and 
I  are  accustomed  to  drink  as  tea  and  coffee. 

A  little  incident  comes  to  me,  connected  with  a 


COFFEE-HOUSES    AND   DOSS-HOUSES 


239 


coffee-house    not   far   from   Jubilee    Street   on   the 
Mile  End   Road. 

"  Cawn  yer  let  me  'ave  somethin'  for  this,  daugh 
ter?  Anythin',  Hi  don't  mind.  Hi  'aven't  'ad  a 
bite  the  blessed  dy,  an  Hi'm  that  fynt.  .  .  ." 


COFFEE-HOUSE  NEAR  JUBILEE  STREET. 

She  was  an  old  woman,  clad  in  decent  black 
rags,  and  in  her  hand  she  held  a-  penny.  The  one 
she  had  addressed  as  '  dauQ-hter '  was  a  care-worn 

O 

woman  of  forty,  proprietress  and  waitress  of  the  house. 

I  waited,  possibly  as  anxiously  as  the  old  woman, 

to  see  how  the  appeal  would  be  received.     It  was 


240  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

four  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  looked  faint  and  sick. 
The  woman  hesitated  an  instant,  then  brought  a 
large  plate  of  '  stewed  lamb  and  young  peas.'  I 
was  eating  a  plate  of  it  myself,  and  it  is  my  judg 
ment  that  the  lamb  was  mutton  and  that  the  peas 
might  have  been  younger  without  being  youthful. 
However,  the  point  is,  the  dish  was  sold  at  six 
pence,  and  the  proprietress  gave  it  for  a  penny, 
demonstrating  anew  the  old  truth  that  the  poor 
are  the  most  charitable. 

The  old  woman,  profuse  in  her  gratitude,  took 
a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  table  and 
ravenously  attacked  the  smoking  stew.  We  ate 
steadily  and  silently,  the  pair  of  us,  when  suddenly, 
explosively  and  most  gleefully,  she  cried  out  to 
me :  — 

"  Hi  sold  a  box  o'  matches  !  " 

"  Yus,"  she  confirmed,  if  anything  with  greater 
and  more  explosive  glee.  "  Hi  sold  a  box  o' 
matches !  That's  'ow  Hi  got  the  penny." 

"  You  must  be  getting  along  in  years,"  I 
suggested. 

"  Seventy-four  yesterday,"  she  replied,  and  re 
turned  with  gusto"  to  her  plate. 

"  Blimey,  I'd  like  to  do  something  for  the  old 
girl,  that  I  would,  but  this  is  the  first  I've  'ad 
to-dy,"  the  young  fellow  alongside  volunteered  to 
me.  "  An'  I  only  'ave  this  because  I  'appened  to 


A  SMALL  DOSS-HOUSE. 


COFFEE-HOUSES   AND    DOSS-HOUSES  24! 

make  an  odd  shilling  washin'  out,  Lordlumme!  I 
don't  know  'ow  many  pots." 

"  No  work  at  my  own  tryde  for  six  weeks,"  he 
said  further,  in  reply  to  my  questions ;  "  nothin' 
but  odd  jobs  a  blessed  long  wy  between." 

One  meets  with  all  sorts  of  adventures  in  coffee 
houses,  and  I  shall  not  soon  forget  a  Cockney 
Amazon  in  a  place  near  Trafalgar  Square,  to  whom 
I  tendered  a  sovereign  when  paying  my  score. 
(By  the  way,  one  is  supposed  to  pay  before  he 
begins  to  eat,  and  if  he  be  poorly  dressed  he  is 
compelled  to  pay  before  he  eats.) 

The  girl  bit  the  gold  piece  between  her  teeth, 
rang  it  on  the  counter,  and  then  looked  me  and 
my  rags  witheringly  up  and  down. 

"  Where 'd  you  find  it  ? "  she  at  length  de 
manded. 

"  Some  mug  left  it  on  the  table  when  he  went 
out,  eh,  don't  you  think  ?  "  I  retorted. 

"  Wot's  yer  gyme  ? "  she  queried,  looking  me 
calmly  in  the  eyes. 

"  I  makes  'em,"  quoth  I. 

She  sniffed  superciliously  and  gave  me  the 
change  in  small  silver,  and  I  had  my  revenge  by 
biting  and  ringing  every  piece  of  it. 

"  I'll  give  you  ha'penny  for  another  lump  of 
sugar  in  the  tea,"  I  said. 

"  I'll  see  you  in  'ell  first,"  came  the  retort   cour- 


242  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

teous.  Also,  she  amplified  the  retort  courteous 
in  divers  vivid  and  unprintable  ways. 

I  never  had  much  talent  for  repartee,  but  she 
knocked  silly  what  little  I  had,  and  I  gulped  down 
my  tea  a  beaten  man,  while  she  gloated  after  me 
even  as  I  passed  out  to  the  street. 

While  300,000  people  of  London  live  in  one- 
room  tenements,  and  900,000  are  illegally  and 
viciously  housed,  38,000  more  are  registered  as 
living  in  common  lodging-houses  —  known  in  the 
vernacular  as  '  doss-houses.'  There  are  many  kinds 
of  doss-houses,  but  in  one  thing  they  are  all  alike, 
from  the  filthy  little  ones  to  the  monster  big  ones 
paying  five  per  cent  and  blatantly  lauded  by  smug 
middle-class  men  who  know  nothing  about  them, 
and  that  one  thing  is  their  uninhabitableness.  By 
this  I  do  not  mean  that  the  roofs  leak  or  the  walls 
are  draughty ;  but  what  I  do  mean  is  that  life  in 
them  is  degrading  and  unwholesome. 

'  The  poor  man's  hotel,'  they  are  often  called,  but 
the  phrase  is  caricature.  Not  to  possess  a  room  to 
one's  self,  in  which  sometimes  to  sit  alone ;  to  be 
forced  out  of  bed  willy-nilly,  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning ;  to  engage  and  pay  anew  for  a  bed  each 
night;  and  never  to  have  any  privacy,  surely  is  a 
mode  of  existence  quite  different  from  that  of  hotel 
life. 

This  must  not  be  considered  a  sweeping  condem- 


COFFEE-HOUSES   AND    DOSS-HOUSES  243 

nation  of  the  big  private  and  municipal  lodging- 
houses  and  working-men's  homes.  Far  from  it. 
They  have  remedied  many  of  the  atrocities  attend 
ant  upon  the  irresponsible  small  doss-houses,  and 
they  give  the  workman  more  for  his  money  than  he 
ever  received  before;  but  that  does  not  make  them 


A  WORKMAN'S  HOME. 


as  habitable  or  wholesome  as  the  dwelling-place  of 
a  man  should  be  who  does  his  work  in  the  world. 
The  little  private  doss-houses,  as  a  rule,  are  un 
mitigated  horrors.  I  have  slept  in  them,  and  I 
know ;  but  let  me  pass  them  by  and  confine  myself 
to  the  bigger  and  better  ones.  Not  far  from  Mid 
dlesex  Street,  Whitechapel,  I  entered  such  a  house, 


244 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


a  place  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  working-men. 
The  entrance  was  by  way  of  a  flight   of  steps  de- 


scending  from  the  sidewalk  to  what  was  properly 
the  cellar  of  the  building.  Here  were  two  large 
and  gloomily  lighted  rooms,  in  which  men  cooked 


COFFEE-HOUSES   AND    DOSS-HOUSES  245 

and  ate.  I  had  intended  to  do  some  cooking  my 
self,  but  the  smell  of  the  place  stole  away  my  appe 
tite,  or,  rather,  wrested  it  from  me ;  so  I  contented 
myself  with  watching  other  men  cook  and  eat. 

One  workman,  home  from  work,  sat  down  oppo 
site  me  at  the  rousrh  wooden  table,  and  besran  his 

O  O 

meal.  A  handful  of  salt  on  the  not  over-clean  table 
constituted  his  butter.  Into  it  he  dipped  his  bread, 
mouthful  by  mouthful,  and  washed  it  down  with  tea 
from  a  big  mug.  A  piece  of  fish  completed  his  bill 
of  fare.  He  ate  silently,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  left  nor  across  at  me.  Here  and  there,  at  the 
various  tables,  other  men  were  eating,  just  as 
silently.  In  the  whole  room  there  was  hardly  a 
note  of  conversation.  A  feeling  of  gloom  pervaded 
the  ill-lighted  place.  Many  of  them  sat  and  brooded 
over  the  crumbs  of  their  repast,  and  made  me 
wonder,  as  Childe  Roland  wondered,  what  evil  they 
had  done  that  they  should  be  punished  so. 

From  the  kitchen  came  the  sounds  of  more  sre- 

o 

nial  life,  and  I  ventured  in  to  the  range  where  the 
men  were  cooking.  But  the  smell  I  had  noticed  on 
entering  was  stronger  here,  and  a  rising  nausea 
drove  me  into  the  street  for  fresh  air. 

On  my  return  I  paid  fivepence  for  a  '  cabin,'  took 
my  receipt  for  the  same  in  the  form  of  a  huge  brass 
check,  and  went  upstairs  to  the  smoking-room. 
Here,  a  couple  of  small  billiard  tables  and  several 


246 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


checkerboards  were  being  used  by  young  working- 
men,  who  waited    in    relays  for   their   turn    at    the 


WORKING-MEN'S  HOMES,  FOR  MEN  ONLY. 

games,  while  many  men  were  sitting  around,  smok 
ing,  reading,  and  mending  their  clothes.  The 
young  men  were  hilarious,  the  old  men  were 


COFFEE-HOUSES   AND   DOSS-HOUSES  247 

gloomy.  In  fact,  there  were  two  types  of  men,  the 
cheerful  and  the  sodden  or  blue,  and  age  seemed  to 
determine  the  classification. 

But  no  more  than  the  two  cellar  rooms,  did  this 
room  convey  the  remotest  suggestion  of  home. 
Certainly  there  could  be  nothing  homelike  about  it 
to  you  and  me,  who  know  what  home  really  is. 
On  the  walls  were  the  most  preposterous  and  insult- 
ins:  notices  re^ulatinor  the  conduct  of  the  quests, 

O  O  O  O 

and  at  ten  o'clock  the  lights  were  put  out,  and  noth 
ing  remained  but  bed.  This  was  gained  by  de 
scending  again  to  the  cellar,  by  surrendering  the 
brass  check  to  a  burly  doorkeeper,  and  by  climbing 
a  long  flight  of  stairs  into  the  upper  regions.  I 
went  to  the  top  of  the  building  and  down  again, 
passing  several  floors  filled  with  sleeping  men. 
The  '  cabins '  were  the  best  accommodation,  each 
cabin  allowing  space  for  a  tiny  bed  and  room  alongside 
of  it  in  which  to  undress.  The  bedding  was  clean, 
and  with  neither  it  nor  the  bed  do  I  find  any  fault. 
But  there  was  no  privacy  about  it,  no  being  alone. 

To  get  an  adequate  idea  of  a  floor  filled  with 
cabins,  you  have  merely  to  magnify  a  layer  of  the 
pasteboard  pigeon-holes  of  an  egg-crate  till  each 
pigeon-hole  is  seven  feet  in  height  and  otherwise 
properly  dimensioned,  then  place  the  magnified 
layer  on  the  floor  of  a  large,  barnlike  room,  and 
there  you  have  it.  There  are  no  ceilings  to  the 


248  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

pigeon-holes,  the  walls  are  thin,  and  the  snores 
from  all  the  sleepers  and  every  move  and  turn  of 
your  nearer  neighbors  come  plainly  to  your  ears. 
And  this  cabin  is  yours  only  for  a  little  while.  In 
the  morning  out  you  go.  You  cannot  put  your 
trunk  in  it,  or  come  and  go  when  you  like,  or  lock 
the  door  behind  you,  or  anything  of  the  sort.  In 
fact,  there  is  no  door  at  all,  only  a  doorway.  If  you 
care  to  remain  a  guest  in  this  poor  man's  hotel,  you 
must  put  up  with  all  this,  and  with  prison  regula 
tions  which  impress  upon  you  constantly  that  you 
are  nobody,  with  little  soul  of  your  own  and  less  to 
say  about  it. 

Now  I  contend  that  the  least  a  man  who  does  his 
day's  work  should  have,  is  a  room  to  himself,  where 
he  can  lock  the  door  and  be  safe  in  his  possessions ; 
where  he  can  sit  down  and  read  by  a  window  or 
look  out ;  where  he  can  come  and  go  whenever  he 
wishes ;  where  he  can  accumulate  a  few  personal 
belongings  other  than  those  he  carries  about  with 
him  on  his  back  and  in  his  pockets ;  where  he  can 
hang  up  pictures  of  his  mother,  sister,  sweetheart, 
ballet  dancers,  or  bulldogs,  as  his  heart  listeth  —  in 

O      7 

short,  one  place  of  his  own  on  the  earth  of  which 
he  can  say :  "  This  is  mine,  my  castle  ;  the  world 
stops  at  the  threshold ;  here  am  I  lord  and  master." 
He  will  be  a  better  citizen,  this  man;  and  he  will 
do  a  better  day's  work. 


COFFEE-HOUSES  AND   DOSS-HOUSES  249 

I  stood  on  one  floor  of  the  poor  man's  hotel  and 
listened.  I  went  from  bed  to  bed  and  looked  at  the 
sleepers.  They  were  young  men,  from  twenty  to 
forty,  most  of  them.  Old  men  cannot  afford  the 
working-man's  home.  They  go  to  the  workhouse. 
But  I  looked  at  the  young  men,  scores  of  them, 
and  they  were  not  bad-looking  fellows.  Their  faces 
were  made  for  women's  kisses,  their  necks  for 
women's  arms.  They  were  lovable,  as  men  are 
lovable.  They  were  capable  of  love.  A  woman's 
touch  redeems  and  softens,  and  they  needed  such 
redemption  and  softening  instead  of  each  day  grow 
ing  harsh  and  harsher.  And  I  wondered  where  these 
women  were,  and  heard  a  '  harlot's  ginny  laugh.' 
Leman  Street,  Waterloo  Road,  Piccadilly,  The 
Strand,  answered  me,  and  I  knew  where  they  were. 


THE    PRECARIOUSNESS    OF    LIFE 

What  do  you  work  at  ?     You  look  ill. 
It's  me  lungs.     I  make  sulphuric  acid. 

You  are  a  salt-cake  man  ? 

Yes. 

Is' it  hard  work  ? 

It  is  damned  hard  work. 

Why  do  you  work  at  such  a  slavish  trade  ? 

I  am  married.     I  have  children.     Am  I  to  starve  and  let  them  ? 

Why  do  you  lead  this  life  ? 

I  am  married.  There's  a  terrible  lot  of  men  out  of  work  in  St. 
Helen's. 

What  do  you  call  hard  work  ? 

My  work.     You  come  and  heave  them  three-hundredweight  lumps 
with  a  fifty-pound  bar,  in  that  heat  at  the  furnace  door,  and  try  it. 
I  will  not.     I  am  a  philosopher. 
Oh  !     Well,  thee  stick  to  t'  job.     Ours  is  f  vary  devil. 

—  From  interviews  with  workmen  by  ROBERT  BLATCHFORD. 

I  WAS  talking  with  a  very  vindictive  man.  In 
his  opinion,  his  wife  had  wronged  him  and  the 
law  had  wronged  him.  The  merits  and  morals 
of  the  case  are  immaterial.  The  meat  of  the 
matter  is  that  she  had  obtained  a  separation, 
and  he  was  compelled  to  pay  ten  shillings  each 
week  for  the  support  of  her  and  the  five  children. 
"  But  look  you,"  said  he  to  me,  "  wot'll  'appen  to  'er 

250 


THE   PRECARIOUSNESS   OF   LIFE  251 

if  I  don't  py  up  the  ten  shillings  ?  S'posin',  now, 
just  s'posin'  a  accident  'appens  to  me,  so  I  cawn't 
work.  S'posin'  I  get  a  rupture,  or  the  rheumatics, 
or  the  cholera.  Wot's  she  goin'  to  do,  eh  ?  Wot's 
she  goin'  to  do  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  No  'ope  for  'er.  The 
best  she  cawn  do  is  the  work'ouse,  an'  that's  'ell. 
An'  if  she  don't  go  to  the  work'ouse,  it'll  be  worse 
'ell.  Come  along  'ith  me  an'  I'll  show  you  women 
sleepin'  in  a  passage,  a  dozen  of  'em.  An'  I'll  show 
you  worse,  wot  she'll  come  to  if  anythin'  'appens  to 
me  and  the  ten  shillings." 

The  certitude  of  this  man's  forecast  is  worthy  of 
consideration.  He  knew  conditions  sufficiently  to 
know  the  precariousness  of  his  wife's  grasp  on  food 
and  shelter.  For  her  the  game  was  up  when  his 
working  capacity  was  impaired  or  destroyed.  And 
when  this  state  of  affairs  is  looked  at  in  its  larger 
aspect,  the  same  will  be  found  true  of  hundreds  of 
thousands  and  even  millions  of  men  and  women 
living  amicably  together  and  cooperating  in  the 
pursuit  of  food  and  shelter. 

The  figures  are  appalling;  1,800,000  people  in 
London  live  on  the  poverty  line  and  below  it,  and 
another  1,000,000  live  with  one  week's  wages  between 
them  and  pauperism.  In  all  England  and  Wales, 
eighteen  per  cent  of  the  whole  population  are  driven 
to  the  parish  for  relief,  and  in  London,  according  to 


252  THE   PEOPLE    OF   THE    ABYSS 

the  statistics  of  the  London  County  Council,  twenty- 
one  per  cent  of  the  whole  population  are  driven  to 
the  parish  for  relief.  Between  being  driven  to  the 
parish  for  relief  and  being  an  out-and-out  pauper  there 
is  a  great  difference,  yet  London  supports  123,000 
paupers,  quite  a  city  of  folk  in  themselves.  One  in 
every  four  in  London  dies  on  public  charity,  while 
939  out  of  every  1000  in  the  United  Kingdom  die 
in  poverty ;  8,000,000  simply  struggle  on  the  ragged 
edge  of  starvation,  and  20,000,000  more  are  not 
comfortable  in  the  simple  and  clean  sense  of  the 
word. 

It  is  interesting  to  go  more  into  detail  concern 
ing  the  London  people  who  die  on  charity.  In 
1886,  and  up  to  1893,  the  percentage  of  pauperism 
to  population  was  less  in  London  than  in  all  Eng 
land ;  but  since  1893,  and  for  every  succeeding 
year,  the  percentage  of  pauperism  to  population  has 
been  greater  in  London  than  in  all  England.  Yet, 
from  the  Registrar  General's  Report  for  1886,  the 
following  figures  are  taken:  — 

Out  of  81,951  deaths  in  London  (1884)  — 

In  workhouses 9»9°9 

In  hospitals 6,559 

In  lunatic  asylums 278 

Total  in  public  refuges    ....  16,746 

Commenting  on  these  figures,  a  Fabian  wTriter 
says  :  "  Considering  that  comparatively  few  of  these 


THE    PRECARIOUSNESS    OF  LIFE  253 

are  children,  it  is  probable  that  one  in  every  three 
London  adults  will  be  driven  into  one  of  these 
refuges  to  die,  and  the  proportion  in  the  case  of  the 
manual  labor  class  must  of  course  be  still  larger." 

These  figures  serve  somewhat  to  indicate  the  prox 
imity  of  the  average  worker  to  pauperism.  Various 
things  make  pauperism.  An  advertisement,  for  in 
stance,  such  as  this,  appearing  in  yesterday  morning's 
paper:  "  Clerk  wanted,  with  knowledge  of  shorthand, 
typewriting,  and  invoicing  ;  wages  ten  shillings  ($2.50) 
a  week.  Apply  by  letter,"  etc.  And  in  today's  paper 
I  read* of  a  clerk,  thirty-five  years  of  age  and  an  inmate 
of  a  London  workhouse,  brought  before  a  maoqs- 

O  O 

trate  for  non-performance  of  task.  He  claimed  that 
he  had  done  his  various  tasks  since  he  had  been  an 
inmate ;  but  when  the  master  set  him  to  breaking 
stones,  his  hands  blistered,  and  he  could  not  finish 
the  task.  He  had  never  been  used  to  an  imple 
ment  heavier  than  a  pen,  he  said.  The  magistrate 
sentenced  him  and  his  blistered  hands  to  seven 
days'  hard  labor. 

Old  age,  of  course,  makes  pauperism.  And  then 
there  is  the  accident,  the  thing  happening,  the  death 
or  disablement  of  the  husband,  father,  and  bread 
winner.  Here  is  a  man,  with  a  wife  and  three 
children,  living  on  the  ticklish  security  of  twenty 
shillings  ($5.00)  per  week  —  and  there  are  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  such  families  in  London.  Perforce, 


254  THE    PEOPLE   OF   THE    ABYSS 

to  even  half  exist,  they  must  live  up  to  the  last 
penny  of  it,  so  that  a  week's  wages,  $5.00,  is  all  that 
stands  between  this  family  and  pauperism  or  star 
vation.  The  thing  happens,  the  father  is  struck 
down,  and  what  then  ?  A  mother  with  three 
children  can  do  little  or  nothing.  Either  she  must 
hand  her  children  over  to  society  as  juvenile  paupers, 
in  order  to  be  free  to  do  something  adequate  for 
herself,  or  she  must  go  to  the  sweat-shops  for  work 
which  she  can  perform  in  the  vile  den  possible  to 
her  reduced  income.  But  with  the  sweat-shops, 
married  women  who  eke  out  their  husband's  earr 
ings,  and  single  women  who  have  but  themselves 
miserably  to  support,  determine  the  scale  of  wages. 
And  this  scale  of  wages,  so  determined,  is  so  low 
that  the  mother  and  her  three  children  can  live 
only  in  positive  beastliness  and  semi-starvation,  till 
decay  and  death  end  their  suffering. 

To  show  that  this  mother,  with  her  three  children 
to  support,  cannot  compete  in  the  sweating  indus 
tries,  I  instance  from  the  current  newspapers  the 
two  following  cases.  A  father  indignantly  writes 
that  his  daughter  and  a  girl  companion  receive  17 
cents  per  gross  for  making  boxes.  They  made 
each  day  four  gross.  Their  expenses  were  16  cents 
for  carfare,  4  cents  for  stamps,  5  cents  for  glue,  and 
2  cents  for  string,  so  that  all  they  earned  between 
them  was  42  cents,  or  a  daily  \vage  each  of  2 1  cents. 


THE    PRECARIOUSNESS    OF    LIFE  255 

In  the  second  case,  before  the  Luton  Guardians  a 
few  days  ago,  an  old  woman  of  seventy-two  appeared, 
asking  for  relief.  "  She  was  a  straw  hat  maker,  but 
had  been  compelled  to  give  up  the  work  owing  to 
the  price  she  obtained  for  them  —  namely,  4^  cents 
each.  For  that  price  she  had  to  provide  plait 
trimmings  and  make  and  finish  the  hats." 

Yet  this  mother  and  her  three  children  we  are 
considering,  have  done  no  wrong  that  they  should 
be  so  punished.  They  have  not  sinned.  The 
thing  happened,  that  is  all ;  the  husband,  father,  and 
breadrwinner,  was  struck  down.  There  is  no  guard 
ing  against  it.  It  is  fortuitous.  A  family  stands 
so  many  chances  of  escaping  the  bottom  of  the 
Abyss,  and  so  many  chances  of  falling  plump  down 
to  it.  The  chance  is  reducible  to  cold,  pitiless  figures, 
and  a  few  of  these  figures  will  not  be  out  of  place. 

Sir  A.  Forwood  calculates  that,  — 

i  of  every  1400  workmen  is  killed  annually. 

i  of  every  2500  workmen  is  totally  disabled. 

i  of  every  300  workmen  is  permanently  partially  disabled. 

i  of  every  8  workmen  is  temporarily  disabled  3  or  4  weeks. 

But  these  are  only  the  accidents  of  industry. 
The  high  mortality  of  the  people  who  live  in  the 
Ghetto  plays  a  terrible  part.  The  average  age  at 
death  among  the  people  of  the  West  End  is  fifty- 
five  years ;  the  average  age  at  death  among  the 
people  of  the  East  End  is  thirty  years.  That  is  to 


256  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

say,  the  person  in  the  West  End  has  twice  the 
chance  for  life  that  the  person  has  in  the  East 
End.  Talk  of  war !  The  mortality  in  South  Africa 
and  the  Philippines  fades  away  to  insignificance. 
Here,  in  the  heart  of  peace,  is  where  the  blood  is 
being  shed ;  and  here  not  even  the  civilized  rules 
of  warfare  obtain,  for  the  women  and  children  and 
babes  in  the  arms  are  killed  just  as  ferociously 
as  the  men  are  killed.  War!  In  England,  every 
year,  500,000  men,  women,  and  children,  engaged 
in  the  various  industries,  are  killed  and  disabled, 
or  are  injured  to  disablement  by  disease. 

In  the  West  End  eighteen  per  cent  of  the  children 
die  before  five  years  of  age  ;  in  the  East  End  fifty-five 
per  cent  of  the  children  die  before  five  years  of  age. 
And  there  are  streets  in  London  where,  out  of 
every  one  hundred  children  born  in  a  year,  fifty 
die  during  the  next  year;  and  of  the  fifty  that 
remain,  twenty-five  die  before  they  are  five 
years  old.  Slaughter !  Herod  did  not  do  quite 
so  badly  —  his  was  a  mere  fifty  per  cent  bagatelle 
mortality. 

That  industry  causes  greater  havoc  with  human 
life  than  battle  does  no  better  substantiation  can  be 
given  than  the  following  extract  from  a  recent  re 
port  of  the  Liverpool  Medical  Officer,  which  is  not 
applicable  to  Liverpool  alone :  — 


THE    PRECARIOUSNESS  OF    LIFE 


257 


In  many  instances  little  if  any  sunlight  could  get  to  the 
courts,  and  the  atmosphere  within  the  dwellings  was  al 
ways  foul,  owing  largely  to  the  saturated  condition  of  the 
walls  and  ceilings,  which  for  so  many  years  had  absorbed 
the  exhalations  of  the  occupants  into  their  porous  material. 
Singular  testimony  to  the  absence  of  sunlight  in  these 
courts  was  furnished  by  the  action  of  the  Parks  and  Gar 
dens  Committee,  who  desired  to  brighten  the  homes  of  the 
poorest  class  by  gifts  of  growing  flowers  and  window- 
boxes  ;  but  these  gifts  could  not  be  made  in  courts  such  as 
these,  as  floivcrs  and  plants  zvcre  susceptible  to  the  unwhole 
some  surroundings,  and  ivould  not  live. 


George  Haw  has  compiled  the  following 
table  on  the  three  St.  George's  parishes  (London 
parishes)  :  — 


Percentage  of 
Population 
Overcrowded 

Death  Rate 
per  1000 

St.  George's 
St.  George's 
St.  George's 

West    

IO 

35 
40 

13.2 

23-7 
26.4 

South  

East     

Then  there  are  the  'dangerous  trades,' in  which 
countless  workers  are  employed.  Their  hold  on  life 
is  indeed  precarious  —  far,  far  more  precarious  than 
the  hold  of  the  twentieth-century  soldier  on  life.  In 
the  linen  trade,  in  the  preparation  of  the  flax,  wet 
feet  and  wet  clothes  cause  an  unusual  amount  of 
bronchitis,  pneumonia,  and  severe  rheumatism ; 


258  THE  PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 

while  in  the  carding  and  spinning  departments  the 
fine  dust  produces  lung-disease  in  the  majority  of 
cases,  and  the  woman  who  starts  carding  at  seven- 

O 

teen  or  eighteen  begins  to  break  up  and  go  to  pieces 
at  thirty.  The  chemical  laborers,  picked  from  the 
strongest  and  most  splendidly  built  men  to  be 
found,  live,  on  an  average,  less  than  forty-eight 
years. 

Says  Dr.  Arlidge,  of  the  potter's  trade :  "  Potter's 
dust  does  not  kill  suddenly,  but  settles,  year  after 
year,  a  little  more  firmly  into  the  lungs,  until  at 
length  a  case  of  plaster  is  formed.  Breathing  be 
comes  more  and  more  difficult  and  depressed,  and 
finally  ceases." 

Steel  dust,  stone  dust,  clay  dust,  alkali  dust,  fluff 
dust,  fibre  dust  —  all  these  things  kill,  and  they  are 
more  deadly  than  machine-guns  and  pom-poms. 
Worst  of  all  is  the  lead  dust  in  the  white  lead 
trades.  Here  is  a  description  of  the  typical  dissolu 
tion  of  a  young,  healthy,  well-developed  girl  who 
goes  to  work  in  a  white  lead  factory :  — 

Here,  after  a  varying  degree  of  exposure,  she  becomes 
anaemic.  It  may  be  that  her  gums  show  a  very  faint  blue 
line,  or  perchance  her  teeth  and  gums  are  perfectly  sound, 
and  no  blue  line  is  discernible.  Coincidently  with  the 
anaemia  she  has  been  getting  thinner,  but  so  gradually  as 
scarcely  to  impress  itself  upon  her  or  her  friends.  Sick 
ness,  however,  ensues,  and  headaches,  growing  in  intensity, 


THE  PRECARIOU3NESS   OF   LIFE  259 

are  developed.  These  are  frequently  attended  by  obscura 
tion  of  vision  or  temporary  blindness.  Such  a  girl  passes 
into  what  appears  to  her  friends  and  medical  adviser  as 
ordinary  hysteria.  This  gradually  deepens  without  warn 
ing,  until  she  is  suddenly  seized  with  a  convulsion,  begin 
ning  in  one-half  of  the  face,  then  involving  the  arm,  next 
the  leg  of  the  same  side  of  the  body,  until  the  convulsion, 
violent  and  purely  epileptic  form  in  character,  becomes 
universal.  This  is  attended  by  loss  of  consciousness,  out 
of  which  she  passes  into  a  series  of  convulsions,  gradually 
increasing  in  severity,  in  one  of  which  she  dies  —  or  con 
sciousness,  partial  or  perfect,  is  regained,  either,  it  may  be, 
for  a  few  minutes,  a  few  hours,  or  days,  during  which 
violent  headache  is  complained  of,  or  she  is  delirious  and 
excitefl,  as  in  acute  mania,  or  dull  and  sullen  as  in  melan 
cholia,  and  requires  to  be  roused,  when  she  is  found  wan 
dering,  and  her  speech  is  somewhat  imperfect.  Without 
further  warning,  save  that  the  pulse,  which  has  become 
soft,  with  nearly  the  normal  number  of  beats,  all  at  once 
becomes  low  and  hard  ;  she  is  suddenly  seized  with  another 
convulsion,  in  which  she  dies,  or  passes  into  a  state  of 
coma  from  which  she  never  rallies.  In  another  case  the 
convulsions  will  gradually  subside,  the  headache  disap 
pears  and  the  patient  recovers,  only  to  find  that  she  has 
completely  lost  her  eyesight,  a  loss  that  may  be  temporary 
or  permanent. 

And  here  are  a  few  specific  cases  of  white  lead 
poisoning:  — 

Charlotte  Rafferty,  a  fine,  well-grown  young  woman 
with  a  splendid  constitution — who  had  never  had  a  day's 
illness  in  her  life  —  became  a  white  lead  worker.  Convul 
sions  seized  her  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  in  the  works. 


260  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

Dr.  Oliver  examined  her,  found  the  blue  line  along  her 
gums,  which  shows  that  the  system  is  under  the  influence 
of  the  lead.  He  knew  that  the  convulsions  would  shortly 
return.  They  did  so,  and  she  died. 

Mary  Ann  Toler  —  a  girl  of  seventeen,  who  had  never 
had  a  fit  in  her  life  —  three  times  became  ill  and  had  to 
leave  off  work  in  the  factory.  Before  she  was  nineteen 
she  showed  symptoms  of  lead  poisoning  —  had  fits,  frothed 
at  the  mouth,  and  died. 

Mary  A.,  an  unusually  vigorous  woman,  was  able  to 
work  in  the  lead  factory  for  twenty  years,  having  colic 
once  only  during  that  time.  Her  eight  children  all  died 
in  early  infancy  from  convulsions.  One  morning,  whilst 
brushing  her  hair,  this  woman  suddenly  lost  all  power  in 
both  her  wrists. 

Eliza  H.,  aged  twenty-five,  after  five  months  at  lead 
works,  was  seized  with  colic.  She  entered  another  factory 
(after  being  refused  by  the  first  one)  and  worked  on  unin 
terruptedly  for  two  years.  Then  the  former  symptoms 
returned,  she  was  seized  with  convulsions,  and  died  in  two 
days  of  acute  lead  poisoning. 

Mr.  Vaughan  Nash,  speaking  of  the  unborn  gen 
eration,  says :  "  The  children  of  the  white  lead 
worker  enter  the  world,  as  a  rule,  only  to  die  from 
the  convulsions  of  lead  poisoning  —  they  are  either 
born  prematurely,  or  die  within  the  first  year." 

And,  finally,  let  me  instance  the  case  of  Harriet 
A.  Walker,  a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  killed  while 
leading  a  forlorn  hope  on  the  industrial  battlefield. 
She  was  employed  as  an  enamelled  ware  brusher, 


THE    PRECARIOUSNESS    OF   LIFE  261 

wherein  lead  poisoning  is  encountered.  Her  father 
and  brother  were  both  out  of  employment.  She 
concealed  her  illness,  walked  six  miles  a  day  to  and 
from  work,  earned  her  seven  or  eight  shillings  per 
week,  and  died,  at  seventeen. 

Depression  in  trade  also  plays  an  important  part 
in  hurling  the  wrorkers  into  the  Abyss.  With  a 
\veek's  wages  between  a  family  and  pauperism,  a 
month's  enforced  idleness  means  hardship  and 
misery  almost  undescribable,  and  from  the  ravages 
of  which  the  victims  do  not  always  recover  when 
work  is  to  be  had  again.  Just  now  the  daily  papers 
contain  the  report  of  a  meeting  of  the  Carlisle 
Branch  of  the  Docker's  Union,  wherein  it  is  stated 
that  many  of  the  men,  for  months  past,  have  not 
averaged  a  weekly  income  of  more  than  $1.00  to 
$1.25.  The  stagnated  state  of  the  shipping  indus 
try  in  the  port  of  London  is  held  accountable  for 
this  condition  of  affairs. 

To  the  young  working-man  or  working-woman,  or 
married  couple,  there  is  no  assurance  of  happy  or 
healthy  middle  life,  nor  of  solvent  old  age.  Work 
as  they  will,  they  cannot  make  their  future  secure. 
It  is  all  a  matter  of  chance.  Everything  depends 
upon  the  thing  happening,  the  thing  with  which 
they  have  nothing  to  do.  Precaution  cannot  fend 
it  off,  nor  can  wiles  evade  it.  If  they  remain  on 
the  industrial  battlefield  they  must  face  it  and  take 


262  THE   PEOPLE    OF  THE   ABYSS 

their  chance  against  heavy  odds.  Of  course,  if  they 
are  favorably  made  and  are  not  tied  by  kinship  du 
ties,  they  may  run  away  from  the  industrial  battle 
field.  In  which  event,  the  safest  thing  the  man  can 
do  is  to  join  the  army ;  and  for  the  woman,  possibly, 
to  become  a  Red  Cross  nurse  or  go  into  a  nunnery. 
In  either  case  they  must  forego  home  and  children 
and  all  that  makes  life  worth  living  and  old  age 
other  than  a  nightmare. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

SUICIDE 

England  is  the  paradise  of  the  rich,  the  purgatory  of  the  wise,  and  the 
hell  of  the  poor.  _  THEODORE  PARKER. 

WITH  life  so  precarious,  and  opportunity  for  the 
happiness  of  life  so  remote,  it  is  inevitable  that  life 
shall  be  cheap  and  suicide  common.  So  common 
is  it,  tnat  one  cannot  pick  up  a  daily  paper  without 
running  across  it;  while  an  attempt-at-suicide  case 
in  a  police  court  excites  no  more  interest  than  an 
ordinary  '  drunk,'  and  is  handled  with  the  same 
rapidity  and  unconcern. 

I  remember  such  a  case  in  the  Thames  Police 
Court.  I  pride  myself  that  I  have  good  eyes  and 
ears,  and  a  fair  working  knowledge  of  men  and 
things;  but  I  confess,  as  I  stood  in  that  courtroom, 
that  I  was  half-bewildered  by  the  amazing  despatch 
with  which  drunks,  disorderlies,  vagrants,  brawlers, 
wife-beaters,  thieves,  fences,  gamblers,  and  women 
of  the  street  went  through  the  machine  of  justice. 
The  dock  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  court  (where 
the  light  is  best),  and  into  it  and  out  again  stepped 
men,  women,  and  children,  in  a  stream  as  steady  as 

263 


264 


THE   PEOPLE    OF   THE   ABYSS 


the  stream  of  sentences  which  fell  from  the  magis 
trate's  lips. 

I  was  still  pondering  over  a  consumptive  'fence' 
who  had  pleaded  inability  to  work  and  necessity  for 
supporting  wife  and  children,  and  who  had  received 


INSIDK  THE  THAMES  POLICE  COURT. 


a  year  at  hard  labor,  when  a  young  boy  of  about 
twenty  appeared  in  the  dock.  '  Alfred  Freeman.' 
I  caught  his  name,  but  failed  to  catch  the  charge. 
A  stout  and  motherly-looking  woman  bobbed  up 
in  the  witness-box  and  began  her  testimony.  Wife 
of  the  Britannia  lock-keeper,  I  learned  she  was. 


SUICIDE  265 

Time,  night ;  a  splash ;  she  ran  to  the  lock  and 
found  the  prisoner  in  the  water. 

I  flashed  my  gaze  from  her  to  him.  So  that  was 
the  charge,  self-murder.  He  stood  there  dazed  and 
unheeding,  his  bonny  brown  hair  rumpled  down  his 
forehead,  his  face  haggard  and  care-worn  and  boyish 
still. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  lock-keeper's  wife  was  saying. 
"  As  fast  as  I  pulled  to  get  'im  out,  'e  crawled  back. 
Then  I  called  for  'elp,  and  some  workmen  'appened 
along,  and  we  got  'im  out  and  turned  'im  over  to 
the  constable." 

The  magistrate  complimented  the  woman  on  her 
muscular  powers,  and  the  courtroom  laughed  ;  but 
all  I  could  see  was  a  boy  on  the  threshold  of  life, 
passionately  crawling  to  muddy  death,  and  there 
was  no  laughter  in  it. 

A  man  was  now  in  the  witness-box,  testifying  to 
the  boy's  good  character  and  giving  extenuating 
evidence.  He  was  the  boy's  foreman,  or  had  been. 
Alfred  was  a  good  boy,  but  he  had  had  lots  of 
trouble  at  home,  money  matters.  And  then  his 
mother  was  sick.  He  was  given  to  worrying,  and 
he  worried  over  it  till  he  laid  himself  out  and 
wasn't  fit  for  work.  He  (the  foreman),  for  the 
sake  of  his  own  reputation,  the  boy's  work  being 
bad,  had  been  forced  to  ask  him  to  resign. 

"  Anything  to  say  ? "  the  magistrate  demanded 
abruptly. 


266         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

The  boy  in  the  dock  mumbled  something  indis 
tinctly.  He  was  still  dazed. 

"  What  does  he  say,  constable  ? "  the  magistrate 
asked  impatiently. 

The  stalwart  man  in  blue  bent  his  ear  to  the 
prisoner's  lips,  and  then  replied  loudly,  "  He  says 
he's  very  sorry,  your  Worship." 

"  Remanded,"  said  his  Worship ;  and  the  next 
case  was  under  way,  the  first  witness  already 
engaged  in  taking  the  oath.  The  boy,  dazed  and 
unheeding,  passed  out  with  the  jailer.  That  was 
all,  five  minutes  from  start  to  finish;  and  tvo 
hulking  brutes  in  the  dock  were  trying  strenuously 
to  shift  the  responsibility  of  the  possession  of  a 
stolen  fishing-pole,  worth  probably  ten  cents. 

The  chief  trouble  with  these  poor  folk  is  that 
they  do  not  know  how  to  commit  suicide,  and 
usually  have  to  make  two  or  three  attempts  before 
they  succeed.  This,  very  naturally,  is  a  horrid 
nuisance  to  the  constables  and  magistrates,  and 
gives  them  no  end  of  trouble.  Sometimes,  how 
ever,  the  magistrates  are  frankly  outspoken  about 
the  matter,  and  censure  the  prisoners  for  the  slack 
ness  of  their  attempts.  For  instance,  Mr.  R.  Sykes, 
chairman  of  the  Stalybridge  magistrates,  in  the  case 
the  other  day  of  Ann  Wood,  who  tried  to  make 
away  with  herself  in  the  canal :  "  If  you  wanted  to 
do  it,  why  didn't  you  do  it  and  get  it  done  with  ?  " 


SUICIDE  267 

demanded  the  indignant  Mr.  Sykes.  "Why  did 
you  not  get  under  the  water  and  make  an  end 
of  it,  instead  of  giving  us  all  this  trouble  and 
bother  ? " 

Poverty,  misery,  and  fear  of  the  workhouse,  are 
the  principal  causes  of  suicide  among  the  working 
classes.  "  I'll  drown  myself  before  I  go  into  the 
workhouse,"  said  Ellen  Hughes  Hunt,  aged  fifty- 
two.  Last  Wednesday  they  held  an  inquest  on 
her  body  at  Shoreditch.  Her  husband  came  from 
the  Islington  Workhouse  to  testify.  He  had  been 
a  cheesemonger,  but  failure  in  business  and  poverty 
had  driven  him  into  the  workhouse,  whither  his 
wife  had  refused  to  accompany  him. 

She  was  last  seen  at  one  in  the  morning.  Three 
hours  later  her  hat  and  jacket  were  found  on  the 
towing  path  by  the  Regent's  Canal,  and  later  her 
body  was  fished  from  the  water.  Verdict:  Suicide 
during  temporary  insanity. 

Such  verdicts  are  crimes  against  truth.  The 
Law  is  a  lie,  and  through  it  men  lie  most  shame 
lessly.  For  instance,  a  disgraced  woman,  forsaken 
and  spat  upon  by  kith  and  kin,  doses  herself  and 
her  baby  with  laudanum.  The  baby  dies ;  but  she 
pulls  through  after  a  few  weeks  in  hospital,  is 
charged  with  murder,  convicted,  and  sentenced  to 
ten  years'  penal  servitude.  Recovering,  the  Law 
holds  her  responsible  for  her  actions ;  yet,  had  she 


268         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

died,  the  same  Law  would  have  rendered  a  verdict 
of  temporary  insanity. 

Now,  considering  the  case  of  Ellen  Hughes  Hunt, 
it  is  as  fair  and  logical  to  say  that  her  husband  was 
suffering  from  temporary  insanity  when  he  went 
into  the  Islington  Workhouse,  as  it  is  to  say  that 
she  was  suffering  from  temporary  insanity  when 
she  went  into  the  Regent's  Canal.  As  to  which 
is  the  preferable  sojourning  place  is  a  matter  of 
opinion,  of  intellectual  judgment.  I,  for  one,  from 
what  I  know  of  canals  and  workhouses,  should 
choose  the  canal,  were  I  in  a  similar  position. 
And  I  make  bold  to  contend  that  I  am  no  more 
insane  than  Ellen  Hughes  Hunt,  her  husband,  and 
the  rest  of  the  human  herd. 

Man  no  longer  follows  instinct  with  the  old  natu 
ral  fidelity.  He  has  developed  into  a  reasoning 
creature,  and  can  intellectually  cling  to  life  or  dis 
card  life  just  as  life  happens  to  promise  great  pleas 
ure  or  pain.  I  dare  to  assert  that  Ellen  Hughes 
Hunt,  defrauded  and  bilked  of  all  the  joys  of  life 
which  fifty-two  years'  service  in  the  world  had 
earned,  with  nothing  but  the  horrors  of  the  work 
house  before  her,  was  very  rational  and  level-headed 
when  she  elected  to  jump  into  the  canal.  And  I 
dare  to  assert,  further,  that  the  jury  had  done  a 
wiser  thing  to  bring  in  a  verdict  charging  society 
with  temporary  insanity  for  allowing  Ellen  Hughes 


SUICIDE  269 

Hunt  to  be  defrauded  and  bilked  of  all  the  joys  of 
life  which  fifty-two  years'  service  in  the  world  had 
earned. 

Temporary  insanity  !  Oh,  these  cursed  phrases, 
these  lies  of  language,  under  which  people  with 
meat  in  their  bellies  and  whole  shirts  on  their  backs 
shelter  themselves,  and  evade  the  responsibility  of 
their  brothers  and  sisters,  empty  of  belly  and  with 
out  whole  shirts  on  their  backs. 

From  one  issue  of  the  Observer,  an  East  End 
paper,  I  quote  the  following  commonplace  events:  — 

A  ship's  fireman,  named  Johnny  King,  was  charged 
with  attempting  to  commit  suicide.  On  Wednesday 
defendant  went  to  Bow  Police  Station  and  stated  that  he 
had  swallowed  a  quantity  of  phosphor  paste,  as  he  was 
hard  up  and  unable  to  obtain  work.  King  was  taken 
inside  and  an  emetic  administered,  when  he  vomited  up  a 
quantity  of  the  poison.  Defendant  now  said  he  was  very 
sorry.  Although  he  had  sixteen  years'  good  character,  he 
was  unable  to  obtain  work  of  any  kind.  Mr.  Dickinson 
had  defendant  put  back  for  the  court  missionary  to  see 
him. 

Timothy  Warner,  thirty-two,  was  remanded  for  a  similar 
offence.  He  jumped  off  Limehouse  Pier,  and  when  res 
cued,  said,  "  I  intended  to  do  it." 

A  decent-looking  young  woman,  named  Ellen  Gray, 
was  remanded  on  a  charge  of  attempting  to  commit 
suicide.  About  half-past  eight  on  Sunday  morning  Con 
stable  834  K  found  defendant  lying  in  a  doorway  m  Ben- 
worth  Street,  and  she  was  in  a  very  drowsy  condition.  She 


270  THE   PEOPLE  OF   THE   ABYSS 

was  holding  an  empty  bottle  in  one  hand,  and  stated  that 
some  two  or  three  hours  previously  she  had  swallowed  a 
quantity  of  laudanum.  As  she  was  evidently  very  ill,  the 
divisional  surgeon  was  sent  for,  and  having  administered 
some  coffee,  ordered  that  she  was  to  be  kept  awake. 
When  defendant  was  charged,  she  stated  that  the  reason 
why  she  attempted  to  take  her  life  was  she  had  neither 
home  nor  friends. 

I  do  not  say  that  all  people  who  commit  suicide 
are  sane,  no  more  than  I  say  that  all  people  who  do 
not  commit  suicide  are  sane.  Insecurity  of  food 
and  shelter,  by  the  way,  is  a  great  cause  of  insanity 
among  the  living.  Costermongers,  hawkers,  and 
pedlars,  a  class  of  workers  who  live  from  hand  to 
mouth  more  than  those  of  any  other  class,  form  the 
highest  percentage  of  those  in  the  lunatic  asylums. 
Among  the  males  each  year,  26.9  per  10,000  go 
insane,  and  among  the  women,  36.9.  On  the  other 
hand,  of  soldiers,  who  are  at  least  sure  of  food  and 
shelter,  13  per  10,000  go  insane;  and  of  farmers 
and  graziers,  only  5.1.  So  a  coster  is  twice  as  likely 
to  lose  his  reason  as  a  soldier,  and  five  times  as 
likely  as  a  farmer. 

Misfortune  and  misery  are  very  potent  in  turning 
people's  heads,  and  drive  one  person  to  the  lunatic 
asylum,  and  another  to  the  morgue  or  the  gallows. 
When  the  thing  happens,  and  the  father  and  hus 
band,  for  all  of  his  love  for  wife  and  children  and 
his  willingness  to  work,  can  get  no  work  to  do,  it  is 


SUICIDE  2/1 

a  simple  matter  for  his  reason  to  totter  and  the 
light  within  his  brain  go  out.  And  it  is  especially 
simple  when  it  is  taken  into  consideration  that  his 
body  is  ravaged  by  innutrition  and  disease,  in  addi 
tion  to  his  soul  being  torn  by  the  sight  of  his  suffer 
ing  wife  and  little  ones. 

"  He  is  a  good-looking  man,  with  a  mass  of  black 
hair,  dark,  expressive  eyes,  delicately  chiselled  nose 
and  chin,  and  wavy,  fair  moustache."  This  is  the 
reporter's  description  of  Frank  Cavilla  as  he  stood 
in  court,  this  dreary  month  of  September,  "dressed 
in  a  much  worn  gray  suit,  and  wearing  no  collar." 

Frank  Cavilla  lived  and  worked  as  a  house  deco 
rator  in  London.  He  is  described  as  a  good  work 
man,  a  steady  fellow,  and  not  given  to  drink,  while 
all  his  neighbors  unite  in  testifying  that  he  was  a 
gentle  and  affectionate  husband  and  father. 

His  wife,  Hannah  Cavilla,  was  a  big,  handsome, 
light-hearted  woman.  She  saw  to  it  that  his  chil 
dren  were  sent  neat  and  clean  (the  neighbors  all 
remarked  the  fact)  to  the  Childeric  Road  Board 
School.  And  so,  with  such  a  man,  so  blessed,  work 
ing  steadily  and  living  temperately,  all  went  well, 
and  the  goose  hung  high. 

Then  the  thing  happened.  He  worked  for  a 
Mr.  Beck,  builder,  and  lived  in  one  of  his  master's 
houses  in  Trundley  Road.  Mr.  Beck  was  thrown 
from  his  trap  and  killed.  The  thing  was  an  unruly 


2/2         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

horse,  and,  as  I  say,  it  happened.  Cavilla  had  to 
seek  fresh  employment  and  find  another  house. 

This  occurred  eighteen  months  ago.  For  eigh 
teen  months  he  fought  the  big  fight.  He  got 
rooms  in  a  little  house  on  Batavia  Road,  but  could 
not  make  both  ends  meet.  Steady  work  could  not 
be  obtained.  He  struggled  manfully  at  casual 
employment  of  all  sorts,  his  wife  and  four  children 
starving  before  his  eyes.  He  starved  himself,  and 
grew  weak,  and  fell  ill.  This  was  three  months  ago, 
and  then  there  was  absolutely  no  food  at  all.  They 
made  no  complaint,  spoke  no  word ;  but  poor  folk 
know.  The  housewives  of  Batavia  Road  sent 
them  food,  but  so  respectable  were  the  Cavillas 
that  the  food  wras  sent  anonymously,  mysteriously, 
so  as  not  to  hurt  their  pride. 

The  thing  had  happened.  He  had  fought,  and 
starved,  and  suffered  for  eighteen  months.  He 
got  up  one  September  morning,  early.  He  opened 
his  pocket-knife.  He  cut  the  throat  of  his  wife, 
Hannah  Cavilla,  aged  thirty-three.  He  cut  the 
throat  of  his  first-born,  Frank,  aged  twelve.  He 
cut  the  throat  of  his  son,  Walter,  aged  eight.  He 
cut  the  throat  of  his  daughter,  Nellie,  aged  four. 
He  cut  the  throat  of  his  youngest-born,  Ernest, 
aged  sixteen  months.  Then  he  watched  beside 
the  dead  all  day  until  the  evening,  when  the  police 
came,  and  he  told  them  to  put  a  penny  in  the  slot 


SUICIDE  273 

of  the  gas-meter  in  order  that  they  might  have  light 
to  see. 

Frank  Cavilla  stood  in  court,  dressed  in  a  much 
worn  gray  suit,  and  wearing  no  collar.  He  was  a 
good-looking  man,  with  a  mass  of  black  hair,  dark, 
expressive  eyes,  delicately  chiselled  nose  and  chin, 
and  wavy,  fair  moustache. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE    CHILDREN 

Where  home  is  a  hovel,  and  dull  we  grovel, 
Forgetting  the  world  is  fair. 

THERE  is  one  beautiful  sight  in  the  East  End, 
and  only  one,  and  it  is  the  children  dancing  in  the 
street  when  the  organ-grinder  goes  his  round.  It 
is  fascinating  to  watch  them,  the  new-born,  the 
next  generation,  swaying  and  stepping,  with  pretty 
little  mimicries  and  graceful  inventions  all  their 
own,  with  muscles  that  move  swiftly  and  easily, 
and  bodies  that  leap  airily,  weaving  rhythms  never 
taught  in  dancing  school. 

I  have  talked  with  these  children,  here,  there, 
and  everywhere,  and  they  struck  me  as  being 
bright  as  other  children,  and  in  many  ways  even 
brighter.  They  have  most  active  little  imagina 
tions.  Their  capacity  for  projecting  themselves 
into  the  realm  of  romance  and  fantasy  is  remark 
able.  A  joyous  life  is  romping  in  their  blood. 
They  delight  in  music,  and  motion,  and  color,  and 
very  often  they  betray  a  startling  beauty  of  face 
and  form  under  their  filth  and  rags. 


THE   CHILDREN  275 

But  there  is  a  Pied  Piper  of  London  Town  who 
steals  them  all  away.  They  disappear.  One  never 
sees  them  again,  or  anything  that  suggests  them. 
You  may  look  for  them  in  vain  amongst  the  gen 
eration  of  grown-ups.  Here  you  will  find  stunted 
forms,  ugly  faces,  and  blunt  and  stolid  minds. 
Grace,  beauty,  imagination,  all  the  resiliency  of 
mind  and  muscle,  are  gone.  Sometimes,  however, 
you  may  see  a  woman,  not  necessarily  old,  but 
twisted  and  deformed  out  of  all  womanhood, 
bloated  and  drunken,  lift  her  draggled  skirts  and 
execute  a  few  grotesque  and  lumbering  steps  upon 
the  pavement.  It  is  a  hint  that  she  was  once  one 
of  those  children  who  danced  to  the  organ-grinder. 
Those  grotesque  and  lumbering  steps  are  all  that 
is  left  of  the  promise  of  childhood.  In  the  befogged 
recesses  of  her  brain  has  arisen  a  fleeting  memory 
that  she  was  once  a  girl.  The  crowd  closes  in. 
Little  girls  are  dancing  beside  her,  about  her,  with 
all  the  pretty  graces  she  dimly  recollects,  but  can 
no  more  than  parody  with  her  body.  Then  she 
pants  for  breath,  exhausted,  and  stumbles  out 
through  the  circle.  But  the  little  girls  dance  on. 

The  children  of  the  Ghetto  possess  all  the  quali 
ties  which  make  for  noble  manhood  and  woman 
hood  ;  but  the  Ghetto  itself,  like  an  infuriated 
tigress  turning  on  its  young,  turns  upon  and  de 
stroys  all  these  qualities,  blots  out  the  light  and 


2/6  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

laughter,  and  moulds  those  it  does  not  kill  into 
sodden  and  forlorn  creatures,  uncouth,  degraded 
and  wretched  below  the  beasts  of  the  field. 

As  to  the  manner  in  which  this  is  done,  I  have 
in  previous  chapters  described  at  length ;  here  let 
Professor  Huxley  describe  in  brief:  "  Any  one  who 
is  acquainted  with  the  state  of  the  population  of 
all  great  industrial  centres,  whether  in  this  or  other 
countries,  is  aware  that  amidst  a  large  and  increas 
ing  body  of  that  population  there  reigns  supreme 
.  .  .  that  condition  which  the  French  call  la  misere, 
a  word  for  which  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  exact 
English  equivalent.  It  is  a  condition  in  which  the 
food,  warmth,  and  clothing  which  are  necessary  for 
the  mere  maintenance  of  the  functions  of  the  body 
in  their  normal  state  cannot  be  obtained ;  in  which 
men,  women,  and  children  are  forced  to  crowd 
into  dens  wherein  decency  is  abolished,  and  the 
most  ordinary  conditions  of  healthful  existence  are 
impossible  of  attainment ;  in  which  the  pleasures 
within  reach  are  reduced  to  brutality  and  drunk 
enness;  in  which  the  pains  accumulate  at  compound 
interest  in  the  shape  of  starvation,  disease,  stunted 
development,  and  moral  degradation ;  in  which  the 
prospect  of  even  steady  and  honest  industry  is  a 
life  of  unsuccessful  battling  with  hunger,  rounded 
by  a  pauper's  grave." 

In  such   conditions,   the   outlook  for  children   is 


THE    CHILDREN  2// 

hopeless.  They  die  like  flies,  and  those  that  sur 
vive,  survive  because  they  possess  excessive  vitality 
and  a  capacity  of  adaptation  to  the  degradation 
with  which  they  are  surrounded.  They  have  no 
home  life.  In  the  dens  and  lairs  in  which  they  live 
they  are  exposed  to  all  that  is  obscene  and  inde 
cent.  And  as  their  minds  are  made  rotten,  so  are 
their  bodies  made  rotten  by  bad  sanitation,  over 
crowding,  and  underfeeding.  When  a  father  and 
mother  live  with  three  or  four  children  in  a  room 
where  the  children  take  turn  about  in  sitting  up  to 
drive  4the  rats  away  from  the  sleepers,  when  those 
children  never  have  enough  to  eat  and  are  preyed 
upon  and  made  miserable  and  weak  by  swarming 
vermin,  the  sort  of  men  and  women  the  survivors 
will  make  can  readily  be  imagined. 

Dull  despair  and  misery 
Lie  about  them  from  their  birth ; 
Ugly  curses,  uglier  mirth, 
Are  their  earliest  lullaby. 

A  man  and  a  woman  marry  and  set  up  house 
keeping  in  one  room.  Their  income  does  not  in 
crease  with  the  years,  though  their  family  does,  and 
the  man  is  exceedingly  lucky  if  he  can  keep  his 
health  and  his  job.  A  baby  comes,  and  then 
another.  This  means  that  more  room  should  be 
obtained ;  but  these  little  mouths  and  bodies  mean 


2/8  THE  PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

additional  expense  and  make  it  absolutely  impossi 
ble  to  get  more  spacious  quarters.  More  babies 
come.  There  is  not  room  in  which  to  turn  around. 
The  youngsters  run  the  streets,  and  by  the  time 
they  are  twelve  or  fourteen  the  room-issue  comes  to 
a  head,  and  out  they  go  on  the  streets  for  good. 
The  boy,  if  he  be  lucky,  can  manage  to  make  the 
common  lodging-houses,  and  he  may  have  any  one 
of  several  ends.  But  the  girl  of  fourteen  or  fifteen, 
forced  in  this  manner  to  leave  the  one  room  called 
home,  and  able  to  earn  at  the  best  a  paltry  five  or 
six  shillings  per  week,  can  have  but  one  end.  And 
the  bitter  end  of  that  one  end  is  such  as  that  of  the 
woman  whose  body  the  police  found  this  morn 
ing  in  a  doorway  on  Dorset  Street,  Whitechapel. 
Homeless,  shelterless,  sick,  with  no  one  with  her 
in  her  last  hour,  she  had  died  in  the  night  of 
exposure.  She  was  sixty-two  years  old  and  a 
match  vender.  She  died  as  a  wild  animal  dies. 

Fresh  in  my  mind  is  the  picture  of  a  boy  in  the 
dock  of  an  East  End  police  court.  His  head  was 
barely  visible  above  the  railing.  He  was  being 
proved  guilty  of  stealing  two  shillings  from  a 
woman,  which  he  had  spent,  not  for  candy  and 
cakes  and  a  good  time,  but  for  food. 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  the  woman  for  food  ?  "  the 
magistrate  demanded,  in  a  hurt  sort  of  tone.  "  She 
would  surely  have  given  you  something  to  eat." 


THE   CHILDREN  279 

"  If  I  'ad  arsked  'er,  I'd  got  locked  up  for 
beggin',''  was  the  boy's  reply. 

The  magistrate  knitted  his  brows  and  accepted 
the  rebuke.  Nobody  knew  the  boy,  nor  his  father 
or  mother.  He  was  without  beginning  or  antece 
dents,  a  waif,  a  stray,  a  young  cub  seeking  his  food 
in  the  jungle  of  empire,  preying  upon  the  weak  and 
being  preyed  upon  by  the  strong. 

The  people  who  try  to  help  gather  up  the  Ghetto 
children  and  send  them  away  on  a  day's  outing  to 
the  country.  They  believe  that  not  very  many 
children  reach  the  age  of  ten  without  having  had 
at  least  one  day  there.  Of  this,  a  writer  says: 
"  The  mental  change  caused  by  one  day  so  spent 
must  not  be  undervalued.  Whatever  the  circum 
stances,  the  children  learn  the  meaning  of  fields 
and  woods,  so  that  descriptions  of  country  scenery 
in  the  books  they  read,  which  before  conveyed  no 
impression,  become  now  intelligible." 

One  day  in  the  fields  and  woods,  if  they  are  lucky 
enough  to  be  picked  up  by  the  people  who  try  to 
help !  And  they  are  being  born  faster  every  day 
than  thev  can  be  carted  off  to  the  fields  and  woods 

j 

for  the  one  day  in  their  lives.  One  day!  In  all  their 
lives,  one  day !  And  for  the  rest  of  the  days,  as  the 
boy  told  a  certain  bishop,  "  At  ten  we  'ops  the 
\vag ;  at  thirteen  we  nicks  things ;  an'  at  sixteen 
we  bashes  the  copper."  Which  is  to  say,  at  ten 


280  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

they  play  truant,  at  thirteen  steal,  and  at  sixteen 
are  sufficiently  developed  hooligans  to  smash  the 
policemen. 

The  Rev.  J.  Cartmel  Robinson  tells  of  a  boy  and 
girl  of  his  parish,  who  set  out  to  walk  to  the  forest. 
They  walked  and  walked  through  the  never-ending 
streets,  expecting  always  to  see  it  by  and  by ;  until 
they  sat  down  at  last,  faint  and  despairing,  and 
were  rescued  by  a  kind  woman  who  brought  them 
back.  Evidently  they  had  been  overlooked  by  the 
people  who  try  to  help. 

The  same  gentleman  is  authority  for  the  state 
ment  that  in  a  street  in  Hoxton  (a  district  of  the 
vast  East  End),  over  seven  hundred  children, 
between  five  and  thirteen  years,  live  in  eighty 
small  houses.  And  he  adds :  "  It  is  because  Lon 
don  has  largely  shut  her  children  in  a  maze  of 
streets  and  houses  and  robbed  them  of  their  rightful 
inheritance  in  sky  and  field  and  brook,  that  they 
grow  up  to  be  men  and  women  physically  unfit." 

He  tells  of  a  member  of  his  congregation  who  let 
a  basement  room  to  a  married  couple.  "  They  said 
they  had  two  children;  when  they  got  possession  it 
turned  out  that  they  had  four.  After  a  while  a  fifth 
appeared,  and  the  landlord  gave  them  notice  to 
quit.  They  paid  no  attention  to  it.  Then  the 
sanitary  inspector,  who  has  to  wink  at  the  law  so 
often,  came  in  and  threatened  my  friend  with  legal 


THE   CHILDREN  281 

proceedings.  He  pleaded  that  he  could  not  get 
them  out.  They  pleaded  that  nobody  would  have 
them  with  so  many  children  at  a  rental  within  their 
means,  which  is  one  of  the  commonest  complaints 
of  the  poor,  by  the  bye.  What  was  to  be  done? 
The  landlord  was  between  two  millstones.  Finally 
he  applied  to  the  magistrate,  who  sent  up  an  officer 
to  inquire  into  the  case.  Since  that  time  about 
twenty  days  have  elapsed,  and  nothing  has  yet 
been  done.  Is  this  a  singular  case  ?  By  no  means  ; 
it  is  quite  common." 

La^t  week  the  police  raided  a  disorderly  house. 
In  one  room  were  found  two  young  children.  They 
were  arrested  and  charged  with  being  inmates  the 
same  as  the  women  had  been.  Their  father 
appeared  at  the  trial.  He  stated  that  himself  and 
wife  and  two  older  children,  besides  the  two  in  the 
dock,  occupied  that  room ;  he  stated  also  that  he 
occupied  it  because  he  could  get  no  other  room  for 
the  half-crown  a  week  he  paid  for  it.  The  magis 
trate  discharged  the  two  juvenile  offenders  and 
warned  the  father  that  he  was  bringing  his  children 
up  unhealthily. 

But  there  is  need  further  to  multiply  instances. 
In  London  the  slaughter  of  the  innocents  goes  on 
on  a  scale  more  stupendous  than  any  before  in  the 
history  of  the  world.  And  equally  stupendous  is 
the  callousness  of  the  people  who  believe  in  Christ, 


282  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

acknowledge  God,  and  go  to  church  regularly  on 
Sunday.  For  the  rest  of  the  week  they  riot  about 
on  the  rents  and  profits  which  come  to  them  from 
the  East  End  stained  with  the  blood  of  the  chil 
dren.  Also,  at  times,  so  peculiarly  are  they  made, 
they  will  take  half  a  million  of  these  rents  and 
profits  and  send  it  away  to  educate  the  black  boys 
of  the  Soudan. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

A    VISION    OF    THE    NIGHT 

All  these  were  years  ago  little  red-colored,  pulpy  infants,  capable  of 
being  kneaded,  baked,  into  any  social  form  you  chose. 

—  CARLYLE. 

LATE  last  night  I  walked  along  Commercial  Street 
from  Spitalfields  to  Whitechapel,  and  still  continu 
ing  south,  down  Leman  Street  to  the  docks.  And 
as  I  walked  I  smiled  at  the  East  End  papers,  which, 


COMMERCIAL  STREET. 
283 


284 


THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 


filled  with  civic  pride,  boastfully  proclaim  that  there 
is  nothing  the  matter  with  the  East  End  as  a  living 
place  for  men  and  women. 

It  is  rather  hard  to  tell  a  tithe  of  what  I  saw. 
Much  of  it  is  untellable.  But  in  a  general  way  I 
may  say  that  I  saw  a  nightmare,  a  fearful  slime  that 


DOWN  LKMAN  STKKKT  TO 


K  DOCKS. 


quickened  the  pavement  with  life,  a  mess  of  unmen 
tionable  obscenity  that  put  into  eclipse  the  '  nightly 
horror '  of  Piccadilly  and  the  Strand.  It  was  a 
menagerie  of  garmented  bipeds  that  looked  some 
thing  like  humans  and  more  like  beasts,  and  to 
complete  the  picture,  brass-buttoned  keepers  kept 
order  among  them  when  they  snarled  too  fiercely. 


A  VISION   OF  THE   NIGHT  285 

I  was  glad  the  keepers  were  there,  for  I  did  not 
have  on  my  '  seafaring '  clothes,  and  I  was  what  is 
called  a  '  mark '  for  the  creatures  of  prey  that 
prowled  up  and  down.  At  times,  between  keepers, 
these  males  looked  at  me  sharply,  hungrily,  gutter- 
wolves  that  they  were,  and  I  was  afraid  of  their 
hands,  of  their  naked  hands,  as  one  may  be  afraid 
of  the  paws  of  a  gorilla.  They  reminded  me  of 
gorillas.  Their  bodies  were  small,  ill-shaped,  and 
squat.  There  were  no  swelling  muscles,  no  abun 
dant  thews  and  wide-spreading  shoulders.  They 
exhibked,  rather,  an  elemental  economy  of  nature, 
such  as  the  cave-men  must  have  exhibited.  But 
there  was  strength  in  those  meagre  bodies,  the 
ferocious,  primordial  strength  to  clutch  and  gripe 
and  tear  and  rend.  When  they  spring  upon  their 
human  prey  they  are  known  even  to  bend  the  victim 
backward  and  double  its  body  till  the  back  is 
broken.  They  possess  neither  conscience  nor 
sentiment,  and  they  will  kill  for  a  half-sovereign, 
without  fear  or  favor,  if  they  are  given  but  half  a 
chance.  They  are  a  new  species,  a  breed  of  city 
savages.  The  streets  and  houses,  alleys  and  courts, 
are  their  hunting  grounds.  As  valley  and  moun 
tain  are  to  the  natural  savage,  street  and  building 
are  valley  and  mountain  to  them.  The  slum  is 
their  jungle,  and  they  live  and  prey  in  the  jungle. 

The  dear  soft  people  of  the  golden  theatres  and 


286  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE  ABYSS 

wonder-mansions  of  the  West  End  do  not  see  these 
creatures,  do  not  dream  that  they  exist.  But  they 
are  here,  alive,  very  much  alive  in  their  jungle. 
And  woe  the  day,  when  England  is  fighting  in  her 
last  trench,  and  her  able-bodied  men  are  on  the 
firing-line !  For  on  that  day  they  will  crawl  out  of 
their  dens  and  lairs,  and  the  people  of  the  West 
End  will  see  them,  as  the  dear  soft  aristocrats  of 
Feudal  France  saw  them  and  asked  one  another, 
"  Whence  came  they  ?  "  "  Are  they  men  ?  " 

But  they  were  not  the  only  beasts  that  ranged 
the  menagerie.  They  were  only  here  and  there, 
lurking  in  dark  courts  and  passing  like  gray 
shadows  along  the  walls ;  but  the  women  from 
whose  rotten  loins  they  spring  were  everywhere. 
They  whined  insolently,  and  in  maudlin  tones 
begged  me  for  pennies,  and  worse.  They  held 
carouse  in  every  boozing  ken,  slatternly,  unkempt, 
bleary-eyed,  and  tousled,  leering  and  gibbering, 
overspilling  with  foulness  and  corruption,  and,  gone 
in  debauch,  sprawling  across  benches  and  bars, 
unspeakably  repulsive,  fearful  to  look  upon. 

And  there  were  others,  strange,  weird  faces  and 
forms  and  twisted  monstrosities  that  shouldered  me 
on  every  side,  inconceivable  types  of  sodden  ugli 
ness,  the  wrecks  of  society,  the  perambulating  car 
casses,  the  living  deaths  —  women,  blasted  by  disease 
and  drink  till  their  shame  brought  not  tu'pence  in 


A  VISION    OF   THE   NIGHT  287 

the  open  mart ;  and  men,  in  fantastic  rags,  wrenched 
by  hardship  and  exposure  out  of  all  semblance  of 
men,  their  faces  in  a  perpetual  writhe  of  pain,  grin 
ning  idiotically,  shambling  like  apes,  dying  with 
every  step  they  took  and  each  breath  they  drew. 
And  there  were  young  girls,  of  eighteen  and  twenty, 
with  trim  bodies  and  faces  yet  untouched  with  twist 
and  bloat,  who  had  fetched  the  bottom  of  the  Abyss 
plump,  in  one  swift  fall.  And  I  remember  a  lad  of 
fourteen,  and  one  of  six  or  seven,  white-faced  and 
sickly,  homeless,  the  pair  of  them,  who  sat  upon  the 
pavement  with  their  backs  against  a  railing  and 
watched  it  all. 

The  unfit  and  the  unneeded  !  Industry  does  not 
clamor  for  them.  There  are  no  jobs  going  begging 
through  lack  of  men  and  women.  The  dockers 

O 

crowd  at  the  entrance  gate,  and  curse  and  turn 
away  when  the  foreman  does  not  give  them  a  call. 
The  engineers  who  have  work  pay  six  shillings  a 
week  to  their  brother  engineers  who  can  find  noth 
ing  to  do;  514,000  textile  workers  oppose  a  resolu 
tion  condemning  the  employment  of  children  under 
fifteen.  Women,  and  plenty  to  spare,  are  found  to 
toil  under  the  sweat-shop  masters  for  tenpence  a 
day  of  fourteen  hours.  Alfred  Freeman  crawls  to 
muddy  death  because  he  loses  his  job.  Ellen 
Hughes  Hunt  prefers  Regent's  Canal  to  Islington 
Workhouse.  Frank  Cavilla  cuts  the  throats  of  his 


288 


THE   PEOPLE  OF   THE   ABYSS 


wife   and    children    because    he    cannot  find    work 
enough  to  give  them  food  and  shelter. 

The  unfit  and  the  unneeded !  The  miserable  and 
despised  and  forgotten,  dying  in  the  social  shambles. 
The  progeny  of  prostitution  —  of  the  prostitution  of 
men  and  women  and  children,  of  flesh  and  blood, 
and  sparkle  and  spirit ;  in  brief,  the  prostitution  of 
labor.  If  this  is  the  best  that  civilization  can  do 
for  the  human,  then  give  us  howling  and  naked 
savagery.  Far  better  to  be  a  people  of  the  wilder 
ness  and  desert,  of  the  cave  and  the  squatting-place, 
than  to  be  a  people  of  the  machine  and  the  Abyss. 


THE  EAST  INDIA  DOCKS. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE    HUNGER    WAIL 

I  hold,  if  the  Almighty  had  ever  made  a  set  of  men  to  do  all  of  the 
eating  and  none  of  the  work,  he  would  have  made  them  with  mouths 
only,  and  no  hands ;  and  if  he  had  ever  made  another  set  that  he  had 
intended  should  do  all  of  the  work  and  none  of  the  eating,  he  would 
have  made  them  without  mouths  and  with  all  hands. 

—  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

"  ]\Jv  father  has  more  stamina  than  I,  for  he  is 
country-born." 

The  speaker,  a  bright  young  East  Ender,  was 
lamenting  his  poor  physical  development. 

"  Look  at  my  scrawny  arm,  will  you."  He  pulled 
up  his  sleeve.  "  Not  enough  to  eat,  that's  what's 
the  matter  with  it.  Oh,  not  now.  I  have  what  I 
want  to  eat  these  days.  But  it's  too  late.  It  can't 
make  up  for  what  I  didn't  have  to  eat  when  I  was  a 
kiddy.  Dad  came  up  to  London  from  the  Fen 
Country.  Mother  died,  and  there  were  six  of  us 
kiddies  and  dad  living  in  two  small  rooms. 

"  He  had  hard  times,  dad  did.  He  might  have 
chucked  us,  but  he  didn't.  He  slaved  all  day,  and  at 
night  he  came  home  and  cooked  and  cared  for  us. 
He  was  father  and  mother,  both.  He  did  his  best, 
but  we  didn't  have  enough  to  eat.  We  rarely  saw 
u  289 


2QO  THE    HUNGER    WAIL 

meat,  and  then  of  the  worst.  And  it  is  not  good 
for  growing  kiddies  to  sit  down  to  a  dinner  of  bread 
and  a  bit  of  cheese,  and  not  enough  of  it. 

"  And  what's  the  result  ?  I  am  undersized,  and  I 
haven't  the  stamina  of  my  dad.  It  was  starved  out 
of  me.  In  a  couple  of  generations  there'll  be  no 
more  of  me  here  in  London.  Yet  there's  my 
younger  brother ;  he's  bigger  and  better  developed. 
You  see,  dad  and  we  children  held  together,  and 
that  accounts  for  it." 

"  But  I  don't  see,"  I  objected.  "  I  should  think, 
under  such  conditions,  that  the  vitality  should  de 
crease  and  the  younger  children  be  born  weaker  and 
weaker." 

"  Not  when  they  hold  together,"  he  replied. 
"  Whenever  you  come  along  in  the  East  End  and 
see  a  child  of  from  eight  to  twelve,  good-sized, 
well-developed,  and  healthy-looking,  just  you  ask, 
and  you  will  find  that  it  is  the  youngest  in  the 
family,  or  at  least  is  one  of  the  younger.  The  way 
of  it  is  this  :  the  older  children  starve  more  than  the 
younger  ones.  By  the  time  the  younger  ones  come 
along,  the  older  ones  are  starting  to  work,  and  there  is 
more  money  coming  in,  and  more  food  to  go  around." 

He  pulled  down  his  sleeve,  a  concrete  instance  of 
where  chronic  semi-starvation  kills  not,  but  stunts. 
His  voice  was  but  one  among  the  myriads  that  raise 
the  cry  of  the  hunger  wail  in  the  greatest  empire  in 


THE  HUNGER   WAIL  291 

the  world.  On  any  one  day,  over  1,000,000  people 
are  in  receipt  of  poor-law  relief  in  the  United  King 
dom.  One  in  eleven  of  the  whole  working-class 
receive  poor-law  relief  in  the  course  of  the  year; 
37,500,000  people  receive  less  than  $60  per  month, 
per  family ;  and  a  constant  army  of  8,000,000  lives 
on  the  border  of  starvation. 

A  committee  of  the  London  Country  school  board 
makes  this  declaration  :  "  At  times,  when  there  is  no 
special  distress,  55,000  children  in  a  state  of  hunger, 
which  makes  it  useless  to  attempt  to  teach  them,  are 
in  the*  schools  of  London  alone."  The  italics  are 
mine.  "  When  there  is  no  special  distress  "  means 
good  times  in  England  ;  for  the  people  of  England 
have  come  to  look  upon  starvation  and  suffering, 
which  they  call  "  distress,"  as  part  of  the  social 
order.  Chronic  starvation  is  looked  upon  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course.  It  is  only  when  acute  starvation 
makes  its  appearance  on  a  large  scale  that  they  think 
something  is  unusual. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  bitter  wail  of  a  blind  man 
in  a  little  East  End  shop  at  the  close  of  a  murky 
day.  He  had  been  the  eldest  of  five  children,  with 
a  mother  and  no  father.  Being  the  eldest,  he  had 
starved  and  worked  as  a  child  to  put  bread  into  the 
mouths  of  his  little  brothers  and  sisters.  Not  once 
in  three  months  did  he  ever  taste  meat.  He  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  have  his  hunger  thoroughly 


2Q2  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

appeased.  And  he  claimed  that  this  chronic  star 
vation  of  his  childhood  had  robbed  him  of  his  sight. 
To  support  the  claim,  he  quoted  from  the  report  of 
the  Royal  Commission  on  the  Blind,  "  Blindness  is 
most  prevalent  in  poor  districts,  and  poverty  acceler 
ates  this  dreadful  affliction." 

But  he  went  further,  this  blind  man,  and  in  his 
voice  was  the  bitterness  of  an  afflicted  man  to  whom 
society  did  not  give  enough  to  eat.  He  was  one  of 
an  army  of  six  million  blind  in  London,  and  he 
said  that  in  the  blind  homes  they  did  not  receive  half 
enough  to  eat.  He  gave  the  diet  for  a  day:  — 

Breakfast  —  f  pint  of  skilly  and  dry  bread. 
Dinner  —  3  oz.  meat. 

i  slice  of  bread. 

%  Ib.  potatoes. 
Supper  —  f  pint  of  skilly  and  dry  bread. 

Oscar  Wilde,  God  rest  his  soul,  voices  the  cry  of 
the  prison  child,  which,  in  varying  degree,  is  the  cry 
of  the  prison  man  and  woman :  "  The  second  thing 
from  which  a  child  suffers  in  prison  is  hunger. 
The  food  that  is  given  to  it  consists  of  a  piece  of 
usually  bad-baked  prison  bread  and  a  tin  of  water 
for  breakfast  at  half-past  seven.  At  twelve  o'clock 
it  gets  dinner,  composed  of  a  tin  of  coarse  Indian 
meal  stirabout  (skilly),  and  at  half-past  five  it  gets 
a  piece  of  dry  bread  and  a  tin  of  water  for  its  sup 
per.  This  diet  in  the  case  of  a  strong  grown  man 


THE   HUNGER   WAIL  293 

is  always  productive  of  illness  of  some  kind,  chiefly 
of  course  diarrhoea,  with  its  attendant  weakness. 
In  fact,  in  a  big  prison  astringent  medicines  are 
served  out  regularly  by  the  warders  as  a  matter  of 
course.  In  the  case  of  a  child,  the  child  is,  as  a 
rule,  incapable  of  eating  the  food  at  all.  Any  one 
who  knows  anything  about  children  knows  how 
easily  a  child's  digestion  is  upset  by  a  fit  of  crying, 
or  trouble  and  mental  distress  of  any  kind.  A  child 
who  has  been  crying  all  day  long,  and  perhaps  half 
the  night,  in  a  lonely  dim-lit  cell,  and  is  preyed 
upon*  by  terror,  simply  cannot  eat  food  of  this 
coarse,  horrible  kind.  In  the  case  of  the  little  child 
to  whom  warden  Martin  gave  the  biscuits,  the  child 
was  crying  with  hunger  on  Tuesday  morning,  and 
utterly  unable  to  eat  the  bread  and  water  served  to 
it  for  its  breakfast.  Martin  went  out  after  the 
breakfasts  had  been  served  and  bought  the  few 
sweet  biscuits  for  the  child  rather  than  see  it  starv 
ing/  It  was  a  beautiful  action  on  his  part,  and  was 
so  recognized  by  the  child,  who,  utterly  unconscious 
of  the  regulations  of  the  Prison  Board,  told  one  of 
the  senior  wardens  how  kind  this  junior  warden  had 
been  to  him.  The  result  was,  of  course,  a  report 
and  a  dismissal." 

Robert  Blatchford  compares  the  workhouse 
pauper's  daily  diet  with  the  soldier's,  which,  when 
he  was  a  soldier,  was  not  considered  liberal  enough, 
and  yet  is  twice  as  liberal  as  the  pauper's. 


294 


THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


PAUPER 

DIET 

SOLDIER 

3ioz. 

Meat 

12   OZ. 

15^  oz. 

Bread 

24  oz. 

6  oz. 

Vegetables 

8  oz. 

The  adult  male  pauper  gets  meat  (outside  of 
soup)  but  once  a  week,  and  the  paupers  "  have 
nearly  all  that  pallid,  pasty  complexion  which  is  the 
sure  mark  of  starvation." 

Here  is  a  table,  comparing  the  workhouse  pauper's 
weekly  allowance  with  the  workhouse  officer's 
weekly  allowance :  — 


OFFICER 

DIET 

PAUPER 

7lb. 

Bread 

6f  Ib. 

Sib- 

Meat 

I   Ib.   2   OZ. 

12   OZ. 

Bacon 

2^  OZ. 

8  oz. 

Cheese 

2   OZ. 

7lb. 

Potatoes 

i|lb. 

61b. 

Vegetables 

none 

i  Ib. 

Flour 

none 

2   OZ. 

Lard 

none 

12   OZ. 

Butter 

7  oz. 

none 

Rice  pudding 

i  Ib. 

And  as  the  same  writer  remarks :  "  The  officer's 
diet  is  still  more  liberal  than  the  pauper's ;  but  evi 
dently  it  is  not  considered  liberal  enough,  for  a  foot 
note  is  added  to  the  officer's  table  saying  that  '  a 


THE   HUNGER   WAIL  295 

cash  payment  of  two  shillings  sixpence  a  week  is 
also  made  to  each  resident  officer  and  servant.'  If 
the  pauper  has  ample  food,  why  does  the  officer 
have  more  ?  And  if  the  officer  has  not  too  much, 
can  the  pauper  be  properly  fed  on  less  than  half  the 
amount  ?  " 

But  it  is  not  alone  the  Ghetto-dweller,  the  pris 
oner,  and  the  pauper  that  starve.  Hodge,  of  the 
country,  does  not  know  what  it  is  always  to  have 
a  full  belly.  In  truth,  it  is  his  empty  belly  which 
has  driven  him.  to  the  city  in  such  great  numbers. 
Let  u$  investigate  the  way  of  living  of  a  laborer 
from  a  parish  in  the  Bradfield  Poor  Law  Union, 
Berks.  Supposing  him  to  have  two  children,  steady 
work,  a  rent-free  cottage,  and  an  average  weekly 
wage  of  thirteen  shillings,  which  is  equivalent  to 
$3.25,  then  here  is  his  weekly  budget:  — 

j.    d. 
Bread  (5  quarterns)  .          .....     i    10 

Flour  (-L  gallon)    „     .......     04 

Tea  (i  Ib.)  ..........     06 

Butter  (i  Ib.)  .........     13 

Lard  (i  Ib.)     .........     06 

Sugar  (6  Ib.)     .........     i     o 

Bacon  or  other  meat  (about  4  Ib.)   ..28 
Cheese  (i  Ib.)      ........     08 

Milk  (half-tin  condensed)  .....     °     3i 

Oil,  candles,  blue,  soap,  salt,  pepper,  etc.     i     o 
Coal  ............     i     6 


Carried  forward      .     .          .     .     .     .  1  1  s. 


296  THE   PEOPLE  OF   THE   ABYSS 

s.      d. 

Brought  forward     .......  1  1     6^ 

Beer  ............  none 

Tobacco      ..........  none 

Insurance  ("  Prudential  ")       ....03 

Laborers'  Union    .....  o     i 

Wood,  tools,  dispensary,  etc  .....  06 

Insurance  ("  Foresters  ")  and  margin  for 

clothes      .........  I][t 


Total 


The  guardians  of  the  workhouse  in  the  above 
Union  pride  themselves  on  their  rigid  economy. 
It  costs  per  pauper  per  week  :  — 

s.       d. 

Men     ...........     6     i£ 

Women      ..........     5     6|- 

Children    .     .........     5      i^- 

If  the  laborer  whose  budget  has  been  described, 
should  quit  his  toil  and  go  into  the  workhouse,  he 
would  cost  the  guardians  for 

s.      d. 
Himself     ..........     6     i^- 

Wife      ...........     5     6£ 

Two  children      ........  10     2^- 

Total      .........   2is.   \o\d. 

Or,  roughly,  $5.46 

It  would  require  $5.46  for  the  workhouse  to  care 
for  him  and  his  family,  which  he,  somehow,  manages 
to  do  on  $3.25.  And  in  addition,  it  is  an  under 
stood  fact  that  it  is  cheaper  to  cater  for  a  large 
number  of  people  —  buying,  cooking,  and  serving 


THE    HUNGER   WAIL  297 

wholesale  —  than  it  is  to  cater  for  a  small  number 
of  people,  say  a  family. 

Nevertheless,  at  the  time  this  budget  was  com 
piled,  there  was  in  that  parish  another  family,  not 
of  four,  but  eleven  persons,  who  had  to  live  on  an 
income,  not  of  thirteen  shillings,  but  of  twelve  shil 
lings  per  week  (eleven  shillings  in  winter),  and 
which  had,  not  a  rent-free  cottage,  but  a  cottage 
for  which  it  paid  three  shillings  per  week. 

This  must  be  understood,  and  understood  clearly: 
Whatever  is  true  of  London  in  the  way  of  poverty 
and  degradation,  is  true  of  all  England.  While 
Paris  is  not  by  any  means  France,  the  city  of 
London  is  Eno-land.  The  frisrhtful  conditions 

O  O 

which  mark  London  an  inferno  likewise  mark  the 
United  Kingdom  an  inferno.  The  argument  that 
the  decentralization  of  London  would  ameliorate 
conditions  is  a  vain  thing  and  false.  If  the 
6,000,000  people  of  London  were  separated  into 
one  hundred  cities  each  with  a  population  of  60,000, 
misery  would  be  decentralized  but  not  diminished. 
The  sum  of  it  would  remain  as  large. 

In  this  instance,  Mr.  B.  S.  Rowntree,  by  an 
exhaustive  analysis,  has  proved  for  the  country 
town  what  Mr.  Charles  Booth  has  proved  for  the 
metropolis,  that  fully  one-fourth  of  the  dwellers  are 
condemned  to  a  poverty  which  destroys  them 
physicallv  and  spiritually;  that  fully  one-fourth  of 


298  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

the  dwellers  do  not  have  enough  to  eat,  are  inade 
quately  clothed,  sheltered,  and  warmed  in  a  rigorous 
climate,  and  are  doomed  to  a  moral  degeneracy 
which  puts  them  lower  than  the  savage  in  cleanli 
ness  and  decency. 

After  listening  to  the  wail  of  an  old  Irish  peasant 
in  Kerry,  Robert  Blatchford  asked  him  what  he 
wanted.  "  The  old  man  leaned  upon  his  spade  and 
looked  out  across  the  black  peat  fields  at  the  lower 
ing  skies.  '  What  is  it  that  I'm  wantun  ? '  he  said  ; 
then  in  a  deep  plaintive  tone  he  continued,  more  to 
himself  than  to  me,  '  All  our  brave  bhoys  and  dear 
gurrls  is  away  an'  over  the  says,  an'  the  agent  has 
taken  the  pig  off  me,  an'  the  wet  has  spiled  the 
praties,  an'  I'm  an  owld  man,  an  I  want  the  Day  av 
Judgment?  " 

The  Day  of  Judgment!  More  than  he  want 
it.  From  all  the  land  rises  the  hunger  wail,  from 
Ghetto  and  countryside,  from  prison  and  casual 
ward,  from  asylum  and  workhouse  —  the  cry  of  the 
people  who  have  not  enough  to  eat.  Millions  of 
people,  men,  women,  children,  little  babes,  the  blind, 
the  deaf,  the  halt,  the  sick,  vagabonds  and  toilers, 
prisoners  and  paupers,  the  people  'Of  Ireland,  Eng 
land,  Scotland,  Wales,  who  have  not  enough  to 
eat.  And  this,  in  face  of  the  fact  that  five  men  can 
produce  bread  for  a  thousand ;  that  one  workman 
can*  produce  cotton  cloth  for  250  people,  woollens 


-  THE   HUNGER  WAIL  299 

for  300,  and  boots  and  shoes  for  1000.  It  would 
seem  that  40,000,000  people  are  keeping  a  big 
house,  and  that  they  are  keeping  it  badly.  The 
income  is  all  right,  but  there  is  something  crimi 
nally  wrong  with  the  management.  And  who  dares 
to  say  that  it  is  not  criminally  mismanaged,  this 
big  house,  when  five  men  can  produce  bread  for  a 
thousand,  and  yet  millions  have  not  enough  to 
eat? 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

DRINK,  TEMPERANCE,  AND    THRIFT 

Sometimes  the  poor  are  praised  for  being  thrifty.  But  to  recommend 
thrift  to  the  poor  is  both  grotesque  and  insulting.  It  is  like  advising  a 
man  who  is  starving  to  eat  less.  For  a  town  or  country  laborer  to 
practice  thrift  would  be  absolutely  immoral.  Man  should  not  be  ready 
to  show  that  he  can  live  like  a  badly-fed  animal. 

—  OSCAR  WILDE. 

THE  English  working  classes  may  be  said  to  be 
soaked  in  beer.  They  are  made  dull  and  sodden  by 
it.  Their  efficiency  is  sadly  impaired,  and  they 
lose  whatever  imagination,  invention,  and  quickness 
may  be  theirs  by  right  of  race.  It  may  hardly 
be  called  an  acquired  habit,  for  they  are  accus 
tomed  to  it  from  their  earliest  infancy.  Children 
are  begotten  in  drunkenness,  saturated  in  drink  be 
fore  they  draw  their  first  breath,  born  to  the  smell 
and  taste  of  it,  and  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  it. 

The  public  house  is  ubiquitous.  It  flourishes  on 
every  corner  and  between  corners,  and  it  is  fre 
quented  almost  as  much  by  women  as  by  men. 
Children  are  to  be  found  in  it  as  well,  waiting  till 
their  fathers  and  mothers  are  ready  to  go  home, 
sipping  from  the  glasses  of  their  elders,  listening  to 

300 


DRINK,   TEMPERANCE,   AND   THRIFT 


301 


the  coarse  language  and  degrading  conversation, 
catching  the  contagion  of  it,  familiarizing  them 
selves  with  licentiousness  and  debauchery. 

Mrs.  Grundy  rules  as  supremely  over  the  workers 
as  she  does  over  the  bourgeoisie ;  but  in  the  case  of 


A  WOMAN'S  CLUB  AT  THE  PUBLIC  HOUSE  DOOR. 

the  workers,  the  one  thing  she  does  not  frown  upon 
is  the  public  house.  No  disgrace  or  shame  attaches 
to  it,  nor  to  the  young  woman  or  girl  who  makes  a 
practice  of  entering  it. 

I  remember  a  girl  in  a  coffee-house  saying,  "  I 
never  drink  spirits  when  in  a  public  'ouse."     She 


302  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS; 

was  a  young  and  pretty  waitress,  and  she  was  laying 
down  to  another  waitress  her  preeminent  respecta 
bility  and  discretion.  Mrs.  Grundy  drew  the  line 
at  spirits,  but  allowed  that  it  was  quite  proper  for 
a  clean  young  girl  to  drink  beer  and  to  go  into  a 
public  house  to  drink  it. 

Not  only  is  this  beer  unfit  for  the  people  to  drink 
it,  but  too  often  the  men  and  women  are  unfit 
to  drink  it.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  their  very 
unfitness  that  drives  them  to  drink  it.  Ill-fed, 
suffering  from  innutrition  and  the  evil  effects  of 
overcrowding  and  squalor,  their  constitutions  de 
velop  a  morbid  craving  for  the  drink,  just  as  the 
sickly  stomach  of  the  over-strung  Manchester  fac 
tory  operative  hankers  after  excessive  quantities  of 
pickles  and  similar  weird  foods.  Unhealthy  work 
ing  and  living  engenders  unhealthy  appetites  and 
desires.  Man  cannot  be  worked  worse  than  a  horse 
is  worked,  and  be  housed  and  fed  as  a  pig  is  housed 
and  fed,  and  at  the  same  time  have  clean  and 
wholesome  ideals  and  aspirations. 

As  home-life  vanishes,  the  public  house  appears. 
Not  only  do  men  and  women  abnormally  crave 
drink,  who  are  overworked,  exhausted,  suffering 
from  deranged  stomachs  and  bad  sanitation,  and 
deadened  by  the  ugliness  and  monotony  of  existence; 
but  the  gregarious  men  and  women  who  have  no 
home-life  flee  to  the  bright  and  clattering  public 


DRINK,   TEMPERANCE,   AND  THRIFT  303 

house  in  a  vain  attempt  to  express  their  gregarious- 
ness.  And  when  a  family  is  housed  in  one  small 
room,  home-life  is  impossible. 

A  brief  examination  of  such  a  dwelling  will 
serve  to  bring  to  light  one  important  cause  of 
drunkenness.  Here  the  family  arises  in  the  morn 
ing,  dresses,  and  makes  its  toilet,  father,  mother, 
sons,  and  daughters,  and  in  the  same  room,  shoulder 
to  shoulder  (for  the  room  is  small),  the  wife  and 
mother  cooks  the  breakfast.  And  in  the  same 
room,  heavy  and  sickening  with  the  exhalations  of 
their  packed  bodies  throughout  the  night,  that 
breakfast  is  eaten.  The  father  goes  to  work,  the 
elder  children  go  to  school  or  on  to  the  street,  and 
the. mother  remains  with  her  crawling,  toddling 
youngsters  to  do  her  housework  —  still  in  the  same 
room.  Here  she  washes  the  clothes,  filling  the 
pent  space  with  soapsuds  and  the  smell  of  dirty 
clothes,  and  overhead  she  hangs  the  wet  linen  to 
dry. 

Here,  in  the  evening,  amid  the  manifold  smells 
of  the  day,  the  family  goes  to  its  virtuous  couch. 
That  is  to  say,  as  many  as  possible  pile  into 
the  one  bed  (if  bed  they  have),  and  the  surplus 
turns  in  on  the  floor.  And  this  is  the  round  of 
their  existence,  month  after  month,  year  after  year, 
for  they  never  get  a  vacation  save  when  they  are 
evicted.  When  a  child  dies,  and  some  are  always 


304         THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

bound  to  die  since  fifty-five  per  cent  of  the  East 
End  children  die  before  they  are  five  years  old,  the 
body  is  laid  out  in  the  same  room.  And  if  they 
are  very  poor,  it  is  kept  for  some  time  until  they 
can  bury  it.  During  the  day  it  lies  on  the  bed ; 
during  the  night,  when  the  living  take  the  bed, 
the  dead  occupies  the  table,  from  which,  in  the 
morning,  when  the  dead  is  put  back  into  the  bed, 
they  eat  their  breakfast.  Sometimes  the  body  is 
placed  on  the  shelf  which  serves  as  pantry  for  their 
food.  Only  a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  an  East  End 
woman  was  in  trouble,  because,  in  this  fashion, 
being  unable  to  bury  it,  she  had  kept  her  dead 
child  three  weeks. 

Now  such  a  room  as  I  have  described,  is  not 
home  but  horror ;  and  the  men  and  women  who  flee 
away  from  it  to  the  public  house  are  to  be  pitied, 
not  blamed.  There  are  300,000  people,  in  London, 
divided  into  families  that  live  in  single  rooms,  while 
there  are  900,000  who  are  illegally  housed  according 
to  the  Public  Health  Act  of  1891  — a  respectable 
.recruiting  ground  for  the  drink  traffic. 

Then  there  are  the  insecurity  of  happiness,  the 
precariousness  of  existence,  the  well-founded  fear 
of  the  future  —  potent  factors  in  driving  people  to 
drink.  Wretchedness  squirms  for  alleviation,  and 
in  the  public  house  its  pain  is  eased  and  forgetful- 
ness  is  obtained.  It  is  unhealthy.  Certainly  it  is, 


DRINK,  TEMPERANCE,   AND  THRIFT  305 

but  everything  else  about  their  lives  is  unhealthy, 
while  this  brings  the  oblivion  that  nothing  else  in 
their  lives  can  bring.  It  even  exalts  them,  and 
makes  them  feel  that  they  are  finer  and  better, 
though  at  the  same  time  it  drags  them  down  and 
makes  them  more  beastly  than  ever.  For  the  un 
fortunate  man  or  woman,  it  is  a  race  between 
miseries  that  ends  with  death. 

It  is  of  no  avail  to  preach  temperance  and  teeto- 
talism  to  these  people.  The  drink  habit  may  be 
the  cause  of  many  miseries;  but  it  is,  in  turn,  the 
effect*of  other  and  prior  miseries.  The  temperance 
advocates  may  preach  their  hearts  out  over  the 
evils  of  drink,  but  until  the  evils  that  cause  people 
to  drink  are  abolished,  drink  and  its  evils  will 
remain. 

Until  the  people  who  try  to  help,  realize  this, 
their  well-intentioned  efforts  will  be  futile,  and  they 
will  present  a  spectacle  fit  only  to  set  Olympus 
laughing.  I  have  gone  through  an  exhibition  of 
Japanese  art,  got  up  for  the  poor  of  Whitechapel 
with  the  idea  of  elevating  them,  of  begetting  in  them 
yearnings  for  the  Beautiful  and  True  and  Good. 
Granting  (what  is  not  so)  that  the  poor  folk  are 
thus  taught  to  know  and  yearn  after  the  Beautiful 
and  True  and  Good,  the  foul  facts  of  their  existence 
and  the  social  law  that  dooms  one  in  three  to  a 
public-charity  death,  demonstrates  that  this  knowl- 


306  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE  ABYSS 

edge  and  yearning  will  be  only  so  much  of  an  added 
curse  to  them.  They  will  have  so  much  more  to 
forget  than  if  they  had  never  known  and  yearned. 
Did  Destiny  to-day  bind  me  down  to  the  life  of 
an  East  End  slave  for  the  rest  of  my  years,  and 
did  Destiny  grant  me  but  one  wish,  I  should  ask 
that  I  might  forget  all  about  the  Beautiful  and 
True  and  Good;  that  I  might  forget  all  I  had 
learned  from  the  open  books,  and  forget  the  people 
i  had  known,  the  things  I  had  heard,  and  the  lands 
I  had  seen.  And  if  Destiny  didn't  grant  it,  I  am 
pretty  confident  that  I  should  get  drunk  and  forget 
it  as  often  as  possible. 

These  people  who  try  to  help  !  Their  college 
settlements,  missions,  charities,  and  what  not,  are 
failures.  In  the  nature  of  things  they  cannot  but 
be  failures.  They  are  wrongly,  though  sincerely, 
conceived.  They  approach  life  through  a  misunder 
standing  of  life,  these  good  folk.  They  do  not 
understand  the  West  End,  yet  they  come  down  to 
the  East  End  as  teachers  and  savants.  They  do 
not  understand  the  simple  sociology  of  Christ,  yet 
they  come  to  the  miserable  and  the  despised  with 
the  pomp  of  social  redeemers.  They  have  worked 
faithfully,  but  beyond  relieving  an  infinitesimal  frac 
tion  of  misery  and  collecting  a  certain  amount  of 
data  which  might  otherwise  have  been  more  scien 
tifically  and  less  expensively  collected,  they  have 
achieved  nothing. 


DRINK,   TEMPERANCE,   AND   THRIFT  307 

As  some  one  has  said,  they  do  everything  for  the 
poor  except  get  off  their  backs.  The  very  money 
they  dribble  out  in  their  child's  schemes  has  been 
wrung  from  the  poor.  They  come  from  a  race  of 
successful  and  predatory  bipeds  who  stand  between 
the  worker  and  his  wages,  and  they  try  to  tell  the 
worker  what  he  shall  do  with  the  pitiful  balance 
left  to  him.  Of  what  use,  in  the  name  of  God,  is 
it  to  establish  nurseries  for  women  workers,  in 
which,  for  instance,  a  child  is  taken  while  the  mother 
makes  violets  in  Islington  at  three  farthings  a  gross, 
when* more  children  and  violet-makers  than  they 
can  cope  with  are  being  born  right  along  ?  This 
violet-maker  handles  each  flower  four  times,  576 
handlings  for  three  farthings,  and  in  the  day  she 
handles  the  flowers  6912  times  for  a  wage  of  eigh 
teen  cents.  She  is  being  robbed.  Somebody  is 
on  her  back,  and  a  yearning  for  the  Beautiful  and 
True  and  Good  will  not  lighten  her  burden.  They 
do  nothing  for  her,  these  dabblers ;  and  what  they 
do  not  do  for  the  mother,  undoes  at  night,  when 
the  child  comes  home,  all  that  they  have  dene  for 
the  child  in  the  day. 

And  one  and  all,  they  join  in  teaching  a  funda 
mental  lie.  They  do  not  know  it  is  a  lie,  but  their 
ignorance  does  not  make  it  more  of  a  truth.  And 
the  lie  they  preach  is  '  thrift.'  An  instance  will 
demonstrate  it.  In  overcrowded  London,  the  strug- 


308  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THi.   ABYSS 

gle  for  a  chance  to  work  is  keen,  and  because  of 
this  struggle  wages  sink  to  the  lowest  means  ot 
subsistence.  To  be  thrifty  means  for  a  worker  to 
spend  less  than  his  income  —  in  other  words,  to  live 
on  less.  This  is  equivalent  to  a  lowering  of  the 
standard  of  living.  In  the  competition  for  a  chance 
to  work,  the  man  with  a  lower  standard  of  living 
will  underbid  the  man  with  a  higher  standard.  And 
a  small  group  of  such  thrifty  workers  in  any  over 
crowded  industry  will  permanently  lower  the  wages 
of  that  industry.  And  the  thrifty  ones  will  no 
longer  be  thrifty,  for  their  income  will  have  been 
reduced  till  it  balances  their  expenditure. 

In  short,  thrift  negates  thrift.  If  every  worker 
in  England  should  heed  the  preachers  of  thrift  and 
cut  expenditure  in  half,  the  condition  of  there  being 
more  men  to  work  than  there  is  work  to  do  would 
swiftly  cut  wages  in  half.  And  then  none  of  the 
workers  of  England  would  be  thrifty,  for  they  would 
be  living  up  to  their  diminished  incomes.  The 
short-sighted  thrift-preachers  would  naturally  be 
astounded  at  the  outcome.  The  measure  of  their 
failure  would  be  precisely  the  measure  of  the  suc 
cess  of  their  propaganda.  And,  anyway,  it  is  sheer 
bosh  and  nonsense  to  preach  thrift  to  the  1,800,000 
London  workers  who  are  divided  into  families  which 
have  a  total  income  of  less  than  $5.25  per  week,  one- 
quarter  to  one-half  of  which  must  be  paid  for  rent. 


DRINK,   TEMPERANCE,   AND   THRIFT  309 

Concerning  the  futility  of  the  people  who  try  to 
help,  I  wish  to  make  one  notable,  noble  exception, 
namely,  the  Dr.  Barnardo  Homes.  Dr.  Barnardo 
is  a  child-catcher.  First,  he  catches  them  when 
they  are  young,  before  they  are  set,  hardened,  in 
the  vicious  social  mould ;  and  then  he  sends  them 
away  to  grow  up  and  be  formed  in  another  and 
better  social  mould.  Up  to  date  he  has  sent  out  of 
the  country  13,340  boys,  most  of  them  to  Canada, 
and  not  one  in  fifty  has  failed.  A  splendid  record, 
when  it  is  considered  that  these  lads  are  waifs  and 
strays*,  homeless  and  parentless,  jerked  out  from  the 
very  bottom  of  the  Abyss,  and  forty-nine  out  of 
fifty  of  them  made  into  men. 

Every  twenty-four  hours  in  the  year  Dr.  Barnardo 
snatches  nine  waifs  from  the  streets  ;  so  the  enor 
mous  field  he  has  to  work  in  may  be  comprehended. 
The  people  who  try  to  help  have  something  to  learn 
from  him.  He  does  not  play  with  palliatives.  He 
traces  social  viciousness  and  misery  to  their  sources. 
He  removes  the  progeny  of  the  gutter-folk  from 
their  pestilential  environment,  and  gives  them  a 
healthy,  wholesome  environment  in  which  to  be 
pressed  and  prodded  and  moulded  into  men. 

When  the  people  who  try  to  help  cease  their 
playing  and  dabbling  with  day  nurseries  and  Japan 
ese  art  exhibits,  and  go  back  and  learn  their  West 
End  and  the  sociology  of  Christ,  they  will  be  in 


310  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  ABYSS 

better  shape  to  buckle  down  to  the  work  they  ought 
to  be  doing  in  the  world.  And  if  they  do  buckle 
down  to  the  work,  they  will  follow  Dr.  Barnardo's 
lead,  only  on  a  scale  as  large  as  the  nation  is  large. 
They  won't  cram  yearnings  for  the  Beautiful  and 
True  and  Good  down  the  throat  of  the  woman 
making  violets  for  three  farthings  a  gross,  but  they 
will  make  somebody  get  off  her  back  and  quit  cram 
ming  himself  till,  like  the  Romans,  he  must  go  to  a 
bath  and  sweat  it  out.  And  to  their  consternation, 
they  will  find  that  they  will  have  to  get  off  that 
woman's  back  themselves,  as  well  as  the  backs  of  a 
few  other  women  and  children  they  did  not  dream 
they  were  riding  upon- 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

THE    MANAGEMENT 

Seven  men  working  sixteen  hours  could  produce  food  by  best 
improved  machinery  to  support  one  thousand  men. 

—  EDWARD  ATKINSON. 

IN  this  final  chapter  it  were  well  to  look  at  the 
Sociai  Abyss  in  its  widest  aspect,  and  to  put  certain 
questions  to  Civilization,  by  the  answers  to  which 
Civilization  must  stand  or  fall.  For  instance,  has 
Civilization  bettered  the  lot  of  man  ?  "  Man "  I 
use  in  its  democratic  sense,  meaning  the  average 
man.  So  the  question  reshapes  itself :  Has  Civili 
zation  bettered  the  lot  of  the  average  man  ? 

Let  us  see.  In  Alaska,  along  the  banks  of  the 
Yukon  River,  near  its  mouth,  live  the  Innuit  folk. 
They  are  a  very  primitive  people,  manifesting  but 
mere  glimmering  adumbrations  of  that  tremendous 
artifice,  Civilization.  Their  capital  amounts  pos 
sibly  to  $10  per  head.  They  hunt  and  fish  for 
their  food  with  bone-headed  spears  and  arrows. 
They  never  suffer  from  lack  of  shelter.  Their 
clothes,  largely  made  from  the  skins  of  animals,  are 
warm.  They  always  have  fuel  for  their  fires,  like- 

3" 


312  THE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   ABYSS 

wise  timber  for  their  houses,  which  they  build  partly 
underground,  and  in  which  they  lie  snugly  dur 
ing  the  periods  of  intense  cold.  In  the  summer 
they  live  in  tents,  open  to  every  breeze  and  cool. 
They  are  healthy,  and  strong,  and  happy.  Their 
one  problem  is  food.  They  have  their  times  of 
plenty  and  times  of  famine.  In  good  times  they 
feast ;  in  bad  times  they  die  of  starvation.  But 
starvation,  as  a  chronic  condition,  present  with  a 
large  number  of  them  all  the  time,  is  a  thing  un 
known.  Further,  they  have  no  debts. 

In  the  United  Kingdom,  on  the  rim  of  the  West 
ern  Ocean,  live  the  English  folk.  They  are  a  con 
summately  civilized  people.  Their  capital  amounts 
to  at  least  $1500  per  head.  They  gain  their  food, 
not  by  hunting  and  fishing,  but  by  toil  at  colossal 
artifices.  For  the  most  part,  they  suffer  from  lack 
of  shelter.  The  greater  number  of  them  are  vilely 
housed,  do  not  have  enough  fuel  to  keep  them 
warm,  and  are  insufficiently  clothed.  A  constant 
number  never  have  any  houses  at  all,  and  sleep  shel 
terless  under  the  stars.  Many  are  to  be  found,  win 
ter  and  summer,  shivering  on  the  streets  in  their 
rags.  They  have  good  times  and  bad.  In  good 
times  most  of  them  manage  to  get  enough  to  eat, 
in  bad  times  they  die  of  starvation.  They  are 
dying  now,  they  were  dying  yesterday  and  last  year, 
they  will  die  to-morrow  and  next  year,  of  starvation  ; 


THE   MANAGEMENT  313 

for  they,  unlike  the  Innuit,  suffer  from  a  chronic 
condition  of  starvation.  There  are  40,000,000  of 
the  English  folk,  and  939  out  of  every  1000  of  them 
die  in  poverty,  while  a  constant  army  of  8,000,000 
struggles  on  the  ragged  edge  of  starvation.  Fur 
ther,  each  babe  that  is  born,  is  born  in  debt  to  the 
sum  of  $110.  This  is  because  of  an  artifice  called 
the  National  Debt. 

In  a  fair  comparison  of  the  average  Innuit  and 
the  average  Englishman,  it  will  be  seen  that  life  is 

o  o 

less  rigorous  for  the  Innuit;  that  while  the  Innuit 
suffer^  only  during  bad  times  from  starvation,  the 
Englishman  suffers  during  good  times  as  well ;  that 
no  Innuit  lacks  fuel,  clothing,  or  housing,  while  the 
Englishman  is  in  perpetual  lack  of  these  three 
essentials.  In  this  connection  it  is  well  to  instance 
the  judgment  of  a  man  such  as  Huxley.  From  the 
knowledge  gained  as  a  medical  officer  in  the  East 
End  of  London,  and  as  a  scientist  pursuing  investi 
gations  among  the  most  elemental  savages,  he  con 
cludes,  "  Were  the  alternative  presented  to  me  I 
would  deliberately  prefer  the  life  of  the  savage  to 
that  of  those  people  of  Christian  London." 

The  creature  comforts  man  enjoys  are  the  prod 
ucts  of  man's  labor.  Since  Civilization  has  failed 
to  give  the  average  Englishman  food  and  shelter 
equal  to  that  enjoyed  by  the  Innuit,  the  question 
arises :  Has  Civilization  increased  the  producing 


314  THE   PEOPLE  OF   THE  ABYSS 

power  of  the  average  man  ?  If  it  has  not  increased 
man's  producing  power,  then  Civilization  cannot 
stand. 

But,  it  will  be  instantly  admitted,  Civilization  has 
increased  man's  producing  power.  Five  men  can 
produce  bread  for  a  thousand.  One  man  can  pro 
duce  cotton  cloth  for  250  people,  woollens  for  300, 
and  boots  and  shoes  for  1000.  Yet  it  has  been 
shown  throughout  the  pages  of  this  book  that  Eng 
lish  folk  by  the  millions  do  not  receive  enough  food, 
clothes,  and  boots.  Then  arises  the  third  and 
inexorable  question :  If  Civilization  has  increased 
tJie  producing  power  of  tJie  average  man,  wJiy  has  it 
not  bettered  the  lot  of  the  average  man  ? 

There  can  be  one  answer  only  —  MISMANAGE 
MENT.  Civilization  has  made  possible  all  manner 
of  creature  comforts  and  heart's  delights.  In 
these  the  average  Englishman  does  not  partici 
pate.  If  he  shall  be  forever  unable  to  participate, 
then  Civilization  falls.  There  is  no  reason  for  the 
continued  existence  of  an  artifice  so  avowed  a  fail 
ure.  But  it  is  impossible  that  men  should  have 
reared  this  tremendous  artifice  in  vain.  It  stuns  the 
intellect.  To  acknowledge  so  crushing  a  defeat  is 
to  give  the  death-blow  to  striving  and  progress. 

One  other  alternative,  and  one  other  only,  pre 
sents  itself.  Civilization  miist  be  compelled  to  better 
the  lot  of  the  average  man.  This  accepted,  it  be- 


THE   MANAGEMENT  315 

comes  at  once  a  question  of  business  management. 
Things  profitable  must  be  continued ;  things  un 
profitable  must  be  eliminated.  Either  the  Empire 
is  a  profit  to  England  or  it  is  a  loss.  If  it  is  a  loss, 
it  must  be  done  away  with.  If  it  is  a  profit,  it  must 
be  managed  so  that  the  average  man  comes  in  for 
a  share  of  the  profit. 

If  the  struggle  for  commercial  supremacy  is  prof 
itable,  continue  it.  If  it  is  not,  if  it  hurts  the 
worker  and  makes  his  lot  worse  than  the  lot  of  a 
savage,  then  fling  foreign  markets  and  industrial 
empire  overboard.  For  it  is  a  patent  fact  that  if 
40,000,000  people,  aided  by  Civilization,  possess  a 
greater  individual  producing  power  than  the  Innuit, 
then  those  40,000,000  people  should  enjoy  more 
creature  comforts  and  heart's  delights  than  the 
Innuits  enjoy. 

If  the  400,000  English  gentlemen,  "  of  no  occupa 
tion,"  according  to  their  own  statement  in  the  Cen 
sus  of  1 88 1,  are  unprofitable,  do  away  with  them. 
Set  them  to  work  ploughing  game  preserves  and 
planting  potatoes.  If  they  are  profitable,  continue 
them  by  all  means,  but  let  it  be  seen  to  that  the 
average  Englishman  shares  somewhat  in  the  profits 
they  produce  by  working  at  no  occupation. 

In  short,  society  must  be  reorganized,  and  a  capa 
ble  management  put  at  the  head.  That  the  present 
management  is  incapable,  there  can  be  no  discus- 


316  THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 

sion.  It  has  drained  the  United  Kingdom  of  its 
life-blood.  It  has  enfeebled  the  stay-at-home  folk 
till  they  are  unable  longer  to  struggle  in  the  van  of 
the  competing  nations.  It  has  built  up  a  West 
End  and  an  East  End  as  large  as  the  Kingdom  is 
large,  in  which  one  end  is  riotous  and  rotten,  the 
other  end  sickly  and  underfed. 

A  vast  empire  is  foundering  on  the  hands  of  this 
incapable  management.  And  by  empire  is  meant 
the  political  machinery  which  holds  together  the 
English-speaking  people  of  the  world  outside  of  the 
United  States.  Nor  is  this  charged  in  a  pessimistic 
spirit.  Blood  empire  is  greater  than  political  empire, 
and  the  English  of  the  New  World  and  the  Antip 
odes  are  strong  and  vigorous  as  ever.  But  the 
political  empire  under  which  they  are  nominally 
assembled  is  perishing.  The  political  machine 
known  as  the  British  Empire  is  running  down.  In 
the  hands  of  its  management  it  is  losing  momentum 
every  day. 

It  is  inevitable  that  this  management,  which  has 
grossly  and  criminally  mismanaged,  shall  be  swept 
away.  Not  only  has  it  been  wasteful  and  ineffi 
cient,  but  it  has  misappropriated  the  funds.  Every 
worn-out,  pasty-faced  pauper,  every  blind  man,  °,very 
prison  babe,  every  man,  woman,  and  child  whose 
belly  is  gnawing  with  hunger  pangs,  is  hungry  be 
cause  the  funds  have  been  misappropriated  by  the 
management. 


THE   MANAGEMENT  317 

Nor  can  one  member  of  this  managing  class  plead 
not  guilty  before  the  judgment  bar  of  Man.  "  The 
living  in  their  houses,  and  in  their  graves  the  dead," 
are  challenged  by  every  babe  that  dies  of  innutri 
tion,  by  every  girl  that  flees  the  sweater's  den  to  the 
nightly  promenade  of  Piccadilly,  by  every  worked- 
out  toiler  that  plunges  into  the  canal.  The  food 
this  managing  class  eats,  the  wine  it  drinks,  the 
shows  it  makes,  and  the  fine  clothes  it  wears,  are 
challenged  by  eight  million  mouths  which  have 
never  had  enough  to  fill  them,  and  by  twice  eight 
million  bodies  which  have  never  been  sufficiently 
clothed  and  housed. 

There  can  be  no  mistake.  Civilization  has  in 
creased  man's  producing  power  an  hundred  fold, 
and  through  mismanagement  the  men  of  Civiliza 
tion  live  worse  than  the  beasts,  and  have  less  to  eat 
and  wear  and  protect  them  from  the  elements  than 
the  savage  Innuit  in  a  frigid  climate  who  lives  to 
day  as  he  lived  in  the  stone  age  ten  thousand  years 
ago. 


318  THE    PEOPLE   OF   THE   ABYSS 


CHALLENGE 

I  have  a  vague  remembrance 

Of  a  story  that  is  told 
In  some  ancient  Spanish  legend 

Or  chronicle  of  old. 

It  was  when  brave  King  Sanchez 

Was  before  Zamora  slain, 
And  his  great  besieging  army 

Lay  encamped  upon  the  plain. 

Don  Diego  de  Ordenez 

Sallied  forth  in  front  of  all, 

And  shouted  loud  his  challenge 
To  the  warders  on  the  wall. 

All  the  people  of  Zamora, 

Both  the  born  and  the  unborn, 

As  traitors  did  he  challenge 
With  taunting  words  of  scorn. 

The  living  in  their  houses, 
And  in  their  graves  the  dead, 

And  the  waters  in  their  rivers, 

And  their  wine,  and  oil,  and  bread. 

There  is  a  greater  army 

That  besets  us  round  with  strife, 
A  starving,  numberless  army 

At  all  the  gates  of  life. 


CHALLENGE  319 

The  poverty-stricken  millions 

Who  challenge  our  wine  and  bread, 

And  impeach  us  all  as  traitors, 
Both  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  whenever  I  sit  at  the  banquet, 
Where  the  feast  and  song  are  high, 

Amid  the  mirth  and  music 
I  can  hear  that  fearful  cry. 

And  hollow  and  haggard  faces 

Look  into  the  lighted  hall, 
And  wasted  hands  are  extended 

To  catch  the  crumbs  that  fall. 

And  within  there  is  light  and  plenty, 

And  odors  fill  the  air ; 
But  without  there  is  cold  and  darkness, 

And  hunger  and  despair. 

And  there  in  the  camp  of  famine, 

In  wind,  and  cold,  and  rain, 
Christ,  the  great  Lord  of  the  Army, 

Lies  dead  upon  the  plain. 

—  LONGFELLOW. 


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PARABLES    OF  LIFE 

Poetic  in  conception,  vivid  and  true  in  imagery,  deli 
cately  clear  and  pure  in  diction,  these  little  pieces  belong 
to  Mr.  Mabie' s  finest  and  strongest  work. — HENRY  VAN 
DYKE, 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Poet,  Dramatiit,  Man 

Professor  F.  H.  Stoddard  speaks  or  this  work  a* 
"  almost  unique  in  Shakespeare  literature,  in  it  that  is  a 
continuous  and  thoroughly  worked  out  study  of  the  whole 
personality  of  Shakespeare." 

A  BOOK  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  LOVE  SONGS 

Edited  by  Hamilton  Mabie.  Superbly  illustrated  with 
Drawings  and  Decorations  by  George  Wharton  Edwards. 

One  of  the  daintiest  specimens  of  bookmaking,  designed  to  serve 
both  as  a  gift  book  and  work  of  reference. 

A  BOOK  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  BALLADS 

Edited  by  Hamilton  Mabie.  Superbly  illustrated  with 
Drawings  and  Decorations  by  George  Wharton  Edwards. 

"  The  aim  has  been  to  bring,  within  moderate  compass,  a  collec 
tion  of  the  songs  of  the  people. —  Extract  from  Introduction. 

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The   QUEST    of  HAPPINESS 

A  Study  of  the  Victory  over  Life's  Troubles.  By  NEW 
ELL  DWIGHT  HILLIS,  Pastor  of  Plymouth  Congrega 
tional  Church,  Brooklyn.  Cloth,  Decorated  Border, 
75C-,  postpaid. 

It  is  a  consummate  statement  of  the  highest  conception 
of  the  nature  of  human  life,  and  of  the  only  methods  by 
which  its  meaning  and  possibilities  can  be  attained.  A 
serene  satisfaction  with  God's  method  of  moral  govern 
ment  breathes  from  every  page  and  makes  the  teacher 
trustworthy. — CHARLES  FREDERICK  Goss. 

^  "  The  Quest  of  Happiness  "  is  Dr.  Hillis'  very  best 
book.  It  is  strong,  vivid,  clear,  and  has  a  certain  indefin 
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circulation  and  make  it  a  source  of  great  helpfulness. 
! — AMORY  H.  BRADFORD,  Pastor  of  the  First  Congrega 
tional  Church,  Montclair,  N.  J. 

I  find  "The  Quest  of  Happiness  "  a  very  rich  and 
beautiful  work.  It  is  eminently  a  book  for  the  home. — 
PHILIP  S.  MOXON,  Pastor  of  South  Congregational 
Church,  Springfield,  Mass. 

HAPPINESS 

Essays    on    the     Meaning   of  Life.      By   CARL   HILTY. 

Translated  by   Francis    Greenwood   Peabody,    Pro 
fessor    of  Christian    Morals,    Harvard   University, 
Cambridge.      I2mo,  cloth,  75  cents,  postpaid. 
Great  numbers  of  thoughtful  people  are  just  now  much 
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surance  and  composure. 

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BREWSTER'S    MILLIONS 

BY 

GEORGE    BARR    McCUTCHEON 


hero  is  a  young  New  Yorker  of  good  parts  who, 
to  save  an  inheritance  of  seven  millions,  starts  out  to 
spend  a  fortune  of  one  million  within  a  year.  An  eccen 
tric  uncle,  ignorant  of  the  earlier  legacy,  leaves  him 
seven  millions  to  be  delivered  at  the  expiration  of  a  year, 
on  the  condition  that  at  that  time  he  is  penniless,  and 
has  proven  himself  a  capable  business  man,  able  to 
manage  his  own  affairs.  The  problem  that  confronts 
Brewster  is  to  spend  his  legacy  without  proving  himself 
either  reckless  or  dissipated.  He  has  ideas  about  the  dis 
position  of  the  seven  millions  which  are  not  those  of  the 
uncle  when  he  tried  to  supply  an  alternative  in  case  the 
nephew  failed  him.  His  adventures  in  pursuit  of  poverty 
are  decidedly  of  an  unusual  kind,  and  his  disappoint 
ments  are  funny  in  quite  a  new  way.  The  situation  it 
developed  with  an  immense  amount  of  humor. 

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GRAUSTARK,  The  Story  of  a  Love  behind  a  Throne. 
CASTLE  CRANEYCROW.       THE  SHERRODS. 

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MISER  HOADLEY'S  SECRET 

With  illustrations  by  CLARE  ANGELL. 

THE  PRICE  OF  FREEDOM 

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